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It seems like fate, though it should not. They’re both too old to believe in such fairy tales, and they’ve both lived lives peppered by the harsh reality of truth (and its often dire consequences) to even give one ounce of weight to fanciful imaginings of an invisible hand controlling the connections between people.
However, as her knee brushes against his, he throws away every preconceived notion and lets that hand guide him - he knows not where.
He first saw her in the airport lounge, as he was waiting for his flight. He felt flutters (like echoes) skittering across the edges of the skin on his forearms.
‘Look at her…’ he thought, admiring the glistening chunks of red lacing their way through the gray in her hair like strings of tinsel bouncing off of a color wheel. She wore a tight skirt and a white blouse, opened ever so delicately so he could see just the whispers of her cleavage.
There seemed to be a haze around her, a glow.
As though she were stepping into his life from another one.
As though, they’d lived moments - important moments - before.
Then, his logical mind took over, and he chalked this feeling up to attraction; she was beautiful, after all - stunningly beautiful - and who wouldn’t have felt the same?
But still, there was an almost ethereal pull.
She glanced at him, quickly, and he swore she felt that pull, too. He wanted to acknowledge her. Instead, he let it all go. He circled his wedding band around his finger, and went back to scrolling through the news on his phone. Disappointed by the results of the last election, he’d made an exodus from one social media site to another, finding Blue Sky cleaner and friendlier, minus the grime of his favorite conspiracy-laden fodder.
‘That’s fine,’ he thought, ‘Conspiracies were fun when I was younger, but now they’re too dangerous.’
As they made the boarding call over the loudspeaker, and he awaited his group, he saw the woman again, carefully pulling along the tiniest little suitcase. Though it felt wrong, he tried to get a glance at the name on her luggage tag, though it proved difficult.
‘Maybe we DID meet once before,’ he thought. ‘Maybe years ago, who knows…’
She remained an enigma to him as he crossed the threshold into the plane, greeted his flight attendant with a friendly smile and sat down in his business class aisle seat. As others boarded, he rifled through his possessions to make a mental checklist; his earbuds were in his pocket; his phone, too. He still had his wallet, and he still had his sunglasses.
He pulled his phone close to his face (a little closer than he had been doing it even a decade ago, but that was the issue with aging, things never got better) and typed out a quick text home. “Boarded.”
He leaned his head against the back of his seat, and prepared himself to take a brief nap on his quick flight from Logan to Dulles.
But, that hand of fate had other plans for him.
“I believe that’s my seat,” she said, with a light smile, using her digital ticket to gesture towards the Seat A next to his Seat B. The seat right up against the window, warmed by the sun.
He rose for her, and stepped into the aisle, giving her the space he felt she deserved.
She folded in the handle of her carry on, and he kindly said, “Here, let me get that for you.”
She hardly needed his help.
But, she appreciated the gesture.
As he stuffed her hardshell bag into the overhead compartment, he was finally able to read her luggage tag, and at a glance of the ten letters that made up her first and last name, he was sure of one thing - he’d never met her before. Still, he pocketed the information for later.
During takeoff, they said nothing, though he still felt the draw of her heat. He left his earbuds in, but listened to nothing. In a way, they were a shield, protecting him against the possibility of pursuing this desire any further; creating the illusion he was occupied, and not open for conversation.
All of that changed though.
When her knee brushed up against his.
*************************************************************************************************************
“Sorry,” he says, first.
“It’s okay,” she says, with a smile. “I’ll take at least part of the blame.”
They lock eyes for a moment. But, only for a moment. Then, he feels as though he should extend this moment, so he asks, “Where are you headed?”
“Same place as you,” she says.
“Sorry, I meant —”
“I know what you meant,” she says, with a teasing smile. She’s drawn to him, of course. He’s handsomer than most men his age, his smile dusted with a tinge of youth. And he not only has all of his hair (which is obviously a plus) but he has maintained his muscle mass, with a large percentage of it being focused on his forearms.
However, she’s aware of the elephant in both of their rooms. ‘You’re married,’ she says to herself. ‘And, based on that wedding band on his finger, he’s married, too.’
She convinces herself that this exchange is innocent; some innocuous conversation to pass the time on a short flight. So, she indulges her seatmate.
“I’m headed back home,” she says.
“From Boston?” he asks.
“London, actually,” she responds.
“Ah, so, Boston was a layover.”
“I suppose you could call it that,” she responds.
“I lived in Virginia… and Maryland… for years.”
“I’m in DC,” she responds.
“You work for the government?” He senses her hesitancy, so he reveals more about himself. “I only ask because… I used to, as well.”
“Oh?” she asks, more curious.
“FBI,” he says. “Or, I was, anyway. Now, just consulting.”
“I was wondering…” she says. “I thought you looked familiar.”
“Same…”
A vacuum develops between these two sentences, and they are quick to fill it with a series of brief statements and question, peppered by lustful glances.
“Maybe we met at an event.”
“A conference?”
“Perhaps.”
“That must be it. I was CIA, anyway,” she says. “But, now I’ve opened a private practice. A medical one, I should say.”
“I never got your name,” he says. “I’m Fox. Mulder.”
“Dana Scully,” she responds, in kind. He knows it, already. He read it, on her tag. But, to hear it escape her mouth gives it an all-new sensation. One that causes a ringing in their soul - in both their souls, really, though they are hesitant to admit it.
Soon, the flight attendant brings them each a complimentary glass of champagne and Fox can swear she thinks they’re a couple.
“Cheers,” he says, raising his glass to Dana’s glass.
“Cheers,” she responds, never breaking eye contact as she raises the rim of the flute to the delicate tip of her lips, leaving just the tiniest sheen of red lipstick on its outer rim. This does not go unnoticed by her seatmate.
“You said you’re doing some consulting?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says. “Ever since Covid. Moved back to Boston. Now, I only have to go into the office every few months.”
“Do you have an apartment in town?” she asks, and he can swear this question is not just conversation but a leading one.
“No,” he says. “They put me up.”
“Motel Six?” she says, with a sarcastic smile.
“The Jefferson.”
“Fancy…” she says, impressed.
Soon, their conversation drifts in and out of places neither expects it to go. They speak about work and life - though, never family… never the commitments they made decades ago, to other people.
Before long, they’ve started their descent, and they can see the familiar sites of the Washington suburbs. As they touch down, they land a little harder than expected, and her fingertips accidentally (and unexpectedly) graze against his as she clutches their shared armrest.
It’s a fleeting second.
An accidental passage of body heat from one person to another.
But, it is a moment he promises himself he’ll never forget.
She stands, he helps her retrieve her bag, and the nod at each other, ever so kindly.
“Have a good trip,” she says, curtly.
And, he accepts that this is the last time he’ll ever see her.
*************************************************************************************************************
He’s waiting for his bag, though he knows he should be smarter than that. His wife always tells him he should just pack a carry on, but he is never quite certain he has enough to get him through each trip, so he stuffs almost every item of clothing he has into their largest suitcase and then spends the first few hours of each trip ironing his clothes in the confines of his hotel room, while he listens to political podcasts on his phone.
He was never quite sure why he continued this habit, even though he knew better.
But now, as he takes his bag off the belt, he realizes why he was doing this.
He was, somehow, waiting for her.
Because now, as he turns, he sees her standing there, right in front of him.
Her arms are folded together, pressing the edges of her cleavage further up, so that he can almost make out even more of her.
Her eyes are wet.
As though, something was revealed to her in the twenty minutes since he last saw her.
Some truth.
Some undeniable truth.
“May I say something?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met before…”
“No…” he says, affirmatively. “I would have remembered, I’m sure of it.”
“And yet…” she says. “There’s something.”
A long pause, as his words catch up to his heart.
“You felt it, too?” he asks.
She sighs. In her youth, she would have denied such magic. She had been born a skeptic, and had lived this way for decades, in spite of the insistence of her sister. Now, as she’s accidentally sauntered into her sixties, she is willing to take the ride and admit that - yes - she felt something.
“I can’t explain it,” she says.
“Neither can I…” he admits.
“I don’t recognize your face, or your name…” she admits.
“Same.”
“But, something else.”
“I know.”
“I feel like we’ve known each other…”
“Our whole lives…”
“Stop…” she says.
“But that’s what you were going to say, right?” he responds.
She moves her head ever so gently, affirming his question with a soft and subtle nod.
“We stood and talked this same way, somewhere before,” she says.
Suddenly, Dion and the Belmonts pops into his head.
“We looked at each other the same way then… but I can’t remember where or when.”
These clothes. This hair. That smile. This isn’t the first time he’s seen them. This isn’t the first time he’s stood with her. He’s talked with her. He’s… loved her.
He wants so desperately to hold her; to wrap her in his arms; to kiss her bottom lip. But, they’re out there, in the open, with what feels like the whole world watching them; families reuniting after long trips, parents carrying screaming toddlers, airport attendants aiding elderly passengers, while the din of holiday music plays over distance loudspeakers.
“Let’s leave this here?” she says.
“Yes,” he said, though it pained him. “Let’s do that. It was very nice to meet you, Dana.”
“You too… Mulder.”
***********************************************************************************************************
At his hotel, he unpacks, undresses and unfurls every item of clothing from his suitcase.
As he stands in the full-length mirror, he admires his own body; the twist of the muscles in his arms, the outline of his cock against his black-boxer briefs. In his youth, there would have been no question. He would have immediately jumped into that hotel bed, pulled down his pants, and stroked himself to the thought of that woman on the plane.
‘Oh Dana…’ he would have muttered under his breath, as he worked his spit into his shaft. ‘I’m so fucking hard for you.’
Now, in his sixties, he values the build-up… the anticipation. He wants each fantasy to be marked by quality, not quantity. He wants to impress even himself with the volume of his load; with the force at which it rockets out of his body.
He’ll think about Dana, he’s sure of it.
But, he wants to save that thought.
And make it special.
Fox slips into a pair of slacks, a collared shirt and a summer blazer, and heads over to a restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. It’s a place he’s been meaning to try, but one that has been largely off his radar. He gets a table alone in a corner, orders himself a glass of red wine and a salad, and reads a few articles on his phone. He’s so engrossed, in fact, that it takes him a few minutes to even realize who is sitting - way across the restaurant - her eyes locked on him.
Dana.
When he sees her, his breath claws its way around his throat, like a violent, upside-down tornado.
She’s wearing something new: a long flowery dress, bathed in yellow as though she herself was dreamed up by the sun. She’s at a table with a man that Fox presumes to be her husband; though, he never sees his face. He seems engrossed in his own doings, so Fox talks to Dana, letting their eyes tell the tale.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I always come here.’
‘I thought I’d never see you again.’
‘I hoped - HOPED - we might cross paths again.’
These feelings about her, they dance through him; but now, more than love, it is lust. A burning desire to take her from this man, to claim her as his own, and to show the universe that he has put things right.
‘We belong together,’ Fox thinks. ‘I know this seems crazy, but I swear I can feel it.’
He wants her so bad, he can almost taste her on his tongue; almost feel her fingernails sliding across his skin; almost know what it would be like to be inside of her. His lips tingle, his eyelids flutter, and he knows that he has to pull himself out of this situation, before it gets any worse. He signals for the server, pays his check, gulps down the last of his quite expensive glass of wine, and makes his way towards the exit. He notices that she notices, and he hopes this will quell their feelings; will put to bed all of these emotions.
With a deft move, he turns down a hallway, moving past the restrooms to find the back exit. But just as he does, he hears her voice: so soft, barely a whisper, but it rings in his ears like an orchestra.
“Fox…”
He turns to see her, as she bites her bottom lip, and shrinks her shoulders together.
“Dana…”
He walks towards her now, no longer under his own control. She grips his face in her tiny hands and brings him down to her level, licking at the tip of his tongue with her own. Her petite frame wrapped up in his large, masculine one; pressed against him, it just feels right.
It just feels fucking right.
She kisses him like she’s out of breath; like she’s run a mile; like she’s been hit by a big ocean wave and she’s struggling to survive.
“Who was that man at your table?” he asks, between kisses. “Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“What if he sees us?”
“I don’t care,” she says, with tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t fucking care.” She feels the bulge of his hard cock pressed up against her belly button, and she so desperately wants to touch it.
He kisses her again, as he puts his hand on the small of her back.
She feels safe.
She feels so fucking safe.
“What room are you in?”
“923,” he answers.
“Wait for me,” she says, ever so gently. “Wait for me.”
She straightens out her dress, brushes back her hair with her fingers, and enters the main dining area.
He watches her go.
His heart is still racing.
His cock is still pounding.
He’s 63 years old.
And she makes him feel three decades younger.
‘Wait for me,’ he hears, in his head. ‘Wait for me.’
*************************************************************************************************************
Fox returns to his room, still struck by this encounter. He moves his fingers across his little rosebuds, as though he can somehow contain the magic within them; as though he can recapture time through touch.
In the hours since, he’s found his cock has hardened and softened; he has drifted his hand to it, pumped it ever so gently so it could grow to its fullest potential, and then let it shrink back down.
Denying himself the pleasure.
So he could save it for her.
‘If she really shows,’ he thinks.
And then, a knock.
He walks to it, still wearing his button shirt and slacks, and finds her there, in her summer dress.
“Can I come in?” she asks, desperately.
He nods, leading her in, making sure no one in the hallway can see them.
“We don’t have very long,” she says.
“No?”
“I had to make an excuse.”
“Your husband?”
“Fox, what is happening?” she asks. “Why is it happening?”
They sit next to each other on the edge of the bed, and try to sort through the pieces.
“We’re married,” Dana says.
“I know.”
“That kiss was wrong.”
“You’re right.”
“But, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Have we gone too far?” Fox asks her.
“Maybe,” she responds.
He swallows hard, holds her hand gently and says, “We can stop, whenever you want. This is a lot, I know. I feel something here. But, I don’t want what happens tonight to make you feel guilty for the rest of your life.”
She nods, fighting back tears.
“Thank you for understanding.” She brings his hand to her lips and kisses it.
“Of course,” he says, with a warm smile.
But then…
She gets hungry.
And she looks at him.
With lustful eyes baked a darker shade of blue than usual due to the heat emanating throughout her body whenever this man is near her.
“Can I watch you?”
“What?” he asks.
“I want to watch you,” she says, out of breath again. “It’s not cheating if I just watch you.”
And, as though he weren’t already ready, she grabs his face and works her tongue across his bottom lip in circles.
“Watch me?” he says to himself, as he builds to the moment. “I like that.”
Fox stands, moves to an armchair in the corner, drops his pants and takes off his shirt. He sits on the chair in just his boxers, never breaking eye contact with Dana. He reaches his hand down to his underwear, and pulls his long, thick member from out of its confines. She’s impressed by its length - yes - but more by its girth. She’s seen her husband’s aged cock but Fox’s is different. It’s elegant and refined, smoothed by age and grown with time.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
She nods, saying not one word. Her breath is fast. Her knees push in towards one another, as she tries to hold back whatever fiery dragon is waiting inside of her.
“Do you want me to touch it?” he asks.
“Please…” she manages to eke out.
Fox licks his palm, and drifts his hand down his shaft.
“I want you so bad…” he grunts under his breath.
“Shhh,” she says.
“Need you so bad,” he says, as he works circles around his head. She is entranced by his body, as every muscle works in tandem to give attention to this generous appendage. His forearm muscles flex, his abs tighten, even the veins in his neck stretch against his skin. There are wrinkles, yes. There are places where the skin is not as tight as it used to be, where the patches of hair on his chest are more gray than ever. But, still…
He’s a work of art.
Even more so when he jerks off.
That dragon inside of her grows hotter; her baked blue eyes turn nearly black; and she accepts that she is not leaving this room with JUST a show.
She stares in amazement, then stands, straightens her dress and says, “I want to help you.”
“How?”
As she walks over to him, she pulls her dress over her head to reveal herself, whole. Her body, though 60, almost denies time’s passage. She is fit and petite, with small breasts that point to God.
“I’m just helping, right?” she says, as though willing it into existence. “We’re not escalating this, I’m just helping you finish.”
She brings her nipple to his lips, so that he can lap at it ever so gently.
“Feed me…” he begs. “Please, feed me…”
“Suck them, like a good boy…” she moves her hand down (the one with the wedding ring) and runs it through his hair.
“Oh fuck…”
“Shhh,” she says, pressing him further against the luxury of her skin; he finds her dark nipple immediately, as it prominently stands atop her creamy mounds. He pulls at them, and she arches her head back in pleasure.
“Fuck….” she grunts.
“Mmm-hmmff,” he responds, over his mouthful.
“Keep touching yourself…” she says, and he can tell she’s not asking him to, she’s insisting he does.
With his left hand, he strokes himself. With his right, he holds onto the softest part of her back.
“We have to stop…” she mutters, though she says it as she pushes him further against her breasts, begging him to give her other nipple that same bath of attention.
He jerks at himself faster now, and she matches his rhythm, moving two fingers down to her gooey center so that she can circle at her clit with ferocity.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” she mutters.
And then, suddenly, she stops. She rips his head from her breast, and looks down at him with what he first assumes is anger — but soon learns is desperation.
“Can you keep a secret?” she asks.
“Yes…”
“Can you keep a fucking secret?”
He nods again, more vigorously.
“Can you keep a FUCKING secret?”
“Uh-huh…”
And, she tells him her secret.
“I need you to eat it… I need you to FUCKING eat it… NOW.”
Like a woman possessed, Dana stands on the legs of the armchair, sinks down to his face, and presents her pussy to him, forcing his head between her legs.
She grips a fistful of his hair - not gently - and uses it to move him up and down against her now dripping lips; her now pulsing nub.
“Fucking lick it…” she pleads. “Fucking use those fucking beautiful lips on me…”
And, he follows her desires, pursing his pouty-little pink plumps against the bulge of her clit, quickly opening and closing them so he creates more friction. She leans on the wall, fucking her new soulmate’s face, as he looks up at the artistic masterwork that is HER.
“Oh Fox… oh fuck… Oh FOX…” she groans.
Out of breath, she sinks down to his lap, and he can feel her moisture puddling against the hair of his thigh.
“We can’t stop it,” she says, kissing at his mouth, now radiating with her juices.
“It’s too strong…” he says.
“We need each other…”
“So bad…”
“Ever since I saw you in that fucking airport…” she says. “I knew it… I fucking knew it…”
“Fuck…” he grunts. “Me too… fuck…”
“Take it…” she begs him. “Take it from me. Don’t ask, just take it from me, Fox.”
He was waiting for this command.
Waiting to feel comfortable to exert his power.
She’s just given it to him.
Now, Fox has license.
He lifts her up so suddenly, she gasps. He drops her to the bed, and immediately buries his shaved face between her legs, pushing every individual ridge of her entryway against the burning hot skin of his lips and tongue. He lifts her thighs high, so he can get deep, kissing at the middle of the arch of her foot before he does so.
“Jesus…” she moans. “Oh GOD… How… fucking HOW?!”
Circling.
Sucking.
Kissing.
Licking.
Eating it.
Eating it, so fucking good.
Against his jawline, she cums. It feels as though the years they wasted by being apart are suddenly being given back to her. She’s not 60 anymore, she’s 30. She’s 25. She’s 40. She’s 50. She’s 35. She’s every age, at once, experiencing this man with every year she’s ever lived.
“Oh fuckkkkk… don’t stop licking it… don’t ever stop fucking licking it…”
He lets her orgasm die down, gently planting kisses on her pink parts and peach parts.
Finally, she groans, “Let me suck it before you put it in me.”
“I’m in charge,” he says.
“Pleaseeee let me suck it, Fox,” she whines. “I’ll be so good for you if you let me suck it.”
She crawls over to him on her belly; She extends her tongue as far as it can go, and circling it around the little cut in his head.
He leans back, and she can see his ab muscles flexing.
Down her throat, she takes him; his girthy miracle, working its way inside of her.
“You’re so fucking bad,” he says.
She shakes her head, implying that she’s saying ‘no.’ She’s not bad. She’s good. She’s so very good.
He gropes desperately at her ass while she sucks him and - finally - grabs her by the shoulder, flips her onto her back, and hovers above her.
“You want it?” he asks.
“On top of me…” she begs. “Fuck me on top of me.”
“I’m so fucking hard for you…”
She kisses him, on his lips, softly.
“I love you… I hope you know… I can’t explain these feelings… but I love you…”
“I love you, too…” he admits.
And then, he passes through her most delicate entryway — and it is as though time itself has shaped their bodies for this exact moment.
They both groan simultaneously.
“Fuckkkk,” she yells, carrying out that last letter as though to a new day; a new dawn; a new horizon.
He takes the fat head of his sixty-three year old cock and delicately drives this blunt-force instrument into her, as she grunts in pleasure. She’s glad she waited so long to feel this feeling, because now she realizes it’s the perfect size and shape of her; her lips are hugging his head, as though they are puzzle pieces.
“I’m not going to last…” she says.
“It’s okay…”
Sixty years she’s waited for his dick.
And it does not disappoint.
As he hovers above her, the movement of his shaft teasing her clit; the force of his head finding new pleasure points; she kisses his neck and cums for him, again.
This one is even more impactful than the last one.
Because they are so close.
Face against face.
Nipples against nipples.
Their bodies are one.
And she gushes her moisture all over him.
Soon, she moves her body so that she can ride him; he paws at her nipples, they’re so pointy — they feel so good between his fingers.
Midway through this position, she notices that they are so nicely framed in the large, full-length mirror in his room. It’s as though they are putting on a show, for an audience of just them.
“Look at us,” she says, gesturing to it.
He turns his head to see them.
Two aged lovers.
Her ass, gliding back and forth; his cock, moving in and out of her.
“Don’t we look so perfect?” she says.
“You’re so fucking hot.”
“WE are…” she grunts.
“Imagine if someone were watching us…” he says.
“You want people to know?” she asks, as she grinds against him harder. “You don’t want this to be a secret?”
“It’s not fair to keep this from people,” he says, with a sly smile. “We’re too fucking good.”
“Now you’ve got it,” she says, her smile matching his.
He positions himself back on top of her, but this time it’s different; this time, it’s about him.
His animalistic urges take over.
And he moves in and out of her like an animal, fighting for dominance in the jungle.
He’s using her.
She can see it, in that same mirror.
The erratic movements in the pumps of his ass.
The tiny little jiggles in his muscular thighs.
This is a man who is used to being in control.
And her tiny little body is making him abdicate all of that control to the feeling working its way through his throbbing cock.
“I’m not going to last…” he says. “I’m sorry…”
“Why are you sorry?” she asks. “I’ve cum twice…”
“I can go longer… I can give you more…” he whimpers.
“It’s okay… I like it… I like knowing you need it…” she say, as she nibbles at his bottom lip.
“Okay,” he says, with an appreciative nod. “I’m gonna cum…” he surrenders. “Gonna fucking cum…”
His body tenses, and she feels that familiar pulsing sensation in his dick that she has come to know as the surefire sign that a man is about to give her everything he has.
“Fuck…” he screams, into her mouth. “FUCK.”
At first, she has the good sense to pull his adulterous cock out of her. He sends his first spurt rocketing up her stomach, touching the edge of her areola. Then, in a split-second, she decides she wants (NEEDS) to take the rest, so she eases him back inside of her and lets him finish right there, in her warmth.
“Oh fuck…” he grunts… “Oh FUCK… this is bad… this is so bad…”
“That’s it…” she says. “It’s okay… it’s right…” She wraps her legs around his body, digging her heels into his supple ass, so that she can push him into her closer, deeper; so she can accept every little bit of his love, and let his powerful sperm live inside of her.
They’re both cheaters, yes.
They’re both adulterers, of course.
But, they are in it together.
“I needed you to do that…” she says, with a gentle kiss. “Hope you understand why.”
She feels her body radiating with his glowing warmth. She circles it around her clit, as though she wants to write its molecules into her body.
He lets loose a sigh, and climbs next to her in bed.
Post-orgasm, their bodies return to their normal state. Her dark eyes return to their normal shade of ocean blue. She’s found a way to quell this fire, and it is through the loving embrace of this one man.
“You’ll remember me?” she asks.
“I’ll never forget you,” he promises.
“You’ll keep this secret?” she asks.
“I won’t tell a soul,” he says. “What we did here… this was for us… for some version of us… that was always meant to do this… that was always meant to be together…”
She finds herself stunned that he’s said this, as she feels the exact same way about him.
She’s supposed to leave.
She’s supposed to return home to her husband..
But, she finds that is impossible.
They fall asleep, gently kissing at one another’s lips, before he pulls her in close.
She wonders if she will ever see Fox again.
Is this the start of an adventure, or the end of one?
She’s not quite sure.