"I don't understand," Wren repeated watching his father manually pack his clothes into his case, "why are you doing this again?"

Aristotle spared his only child an exasperated look before returning his gaze to his shirts, he turned to Wren.

"The pale pink or the pale blue?"

Wren shook his head and stood up, "are you having a mid-life crisis?"

"Wren," Aristotle began patiently, "why is it so hard for you to accept that I want to take a break from Tigarian Tech? Work can be damn stressful sometimes … and I'm not as young as I used to be."

Aristotle admitted this resentfully, he didn't like feeling his age at all.

Wren snorted at his father and gave him an once-over; nobody would ever believe that Aristotle Tigarian was a day over forty. In fact, when he's father wasn't working himself to a ruin he looked thirty-five. Old age to a Were-Hunter was never the same as it was for a human; it took the first hundred years to grow up then the next millennia to get mature and then a few hundred years after that just for their old age to kick in. It was ludicrous to think that his father could be old, when the man still ran his company with the same ruthlessness and untiring, single-minded concentration and intensity that he had when he founded it. In fact, that was the way Aristotle lived his life, with no room for error or misjudgement or, as far as Wren could see, fun.

"Because its you!" Wren responded, almost laughing at how blasé his father was being, as if taking off on vacation was something that he did all the time. "I mean, I'm not saying it's a bad thing … it's actually something I wanted to tell you to do for ages. But you never do these things without being blackmailed into them, then you spend all the vacation grumbling and not having fun. It kind of makes me think there's something … wrong?"

Aristotle laughed, he did love his son deeply, before he'd brought Wren back into his life there had been nobody around to worry over him the way his child did.

"I'm not sick, Wren, I'm just … in need of a change."

Wren let out a slightly relieved breath and nodded.

"Well, if that's all it is," Wren muttered, picking up the selection of ties from the floor that Aristotle didn't want to take with him, "but you can't blame me. I mean, ever since I was a cub work was your world. Once you were at your desk I think you forgot you had a son …"

Wren closed his eyes and wanted to saw his tongue off; he'd meant it as a joke but should have known better. Because his guilt over the past, Aristotle had a hard time dealing with any mention of it and Wren making light of it all didn't help. Wren looked over to see his father standing still and staring down at the shirt he was holding, Wren cursed himself.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Dad," Wren said, putting the ties on the bed, "I didn't think. I know you don't like me mentioning -"

"Its fine, Wren," his father said gracefully, "it's alright."

Wren nodded and stayed silent, the awkwardness crept between them to the point where both animals felt the need to pace, but in their human bodies stayed completely still.

"Well, I better get back to Maggie," Wren muttered and offered his father an apologetic smile, Aristotle grabbed his son in a hug. Wren hugged back, grateful that his slip of the tongue hadn't completely affected his father's mood.

"See you later, son," Aristotle said, giving Wren an affectionate slap on the cheek, Wren smiled and flashed himself to his own house. When he was alone Aristotle sat on his bed and sighed, Wren was always very careful never to mention his childhood in front of him, Aristotle knew by the way he and Maggie skirted around the issue whenever the conversation took that kind of turn. Aristotle remembered one occasion when Nicky, his oldest grandchild, had been about two and was intent on climbing everything that stood still, and even those things that didn't. Maggie had said she was getting just like her father, meaning that when their daughter set her mind to something she stubbornly committed to it until she achieved it. Wren had teased that he had never had an obsession with climbing things in his cub days and Maggie had scoffed and asked him how he would know and that she would just have to ask Aristotle. At that point Maggie had looked panicked and Wren had given her a just-change-the-conversation look. The worse thing was that Aristotle knew Wren did not want to throw anything back in his face, that he didn't blame him for being a complete bastard to him as a cub. That kind of forgiveness and acceptance was sometimes harder to take then just having Wren hate him … well, no, that wasn't true. If Wren hated him Aristotle knew it would rip him apart, especially now that he knew what a good, mature and capable tiger Wren had turned out to be. It was what made being around his grandchildren so hard for Aristotle, he saw in Wren everything he should have been as a father and protector. When the twins, Ashley and Hailey, had been born each had their own defect. Ashley, the human twin, was born with a strange pigment defect on her skin. She had been born with an upside down triangle on her forehead, the point of which touched the centre of her forehead and spread up about three or four centimetres into her hair line. It was a shocking white colour, stark against her dark brown hair and the Cajun skin colouring she'd inherited from her mother's side. It was more prominent then ever when Maggie tied the child's hair in pig tails and the centre parting divided the triangle through the middle. The tiger twin, Hailey, had been born a white tiger, which was considered amongst tiger kin to be one of the worst defects and disgraces their breed could suffer. It was probable to assume that Ashley would also be white when she went through puberty and gained the ability to take Were form.

Wren knew the implications of these defects yet he refused to be anything but a loving, proud father. It hurt Aristotle to see the way Wren rolled upon the ground with his children, human and cub, and the way they climbed over his back and bit at his ears. Aristotle longed to know what that felt like because he and Wren had never been like that, he had never allowed it and by the time he had become willing it was too late. And now, if he asked Wren to crawl over his back his son would likely stare at him in horror and then proceed to beat the life out of him while yelling at Maggie to phone Oprah to see if she could help.

No, Aristotle had lost his chance a long time ago and all he could do now is try and make up for it the best he could with a son who really never needed his help. What did Aristotle have that could be given? He'd assumed that finding his son and being in each other's life would give him the sense of purpose to his life he had waited for while Wren lived his fate and discovered the truth. But it hadn't, in fact, the lack of purpose made him feel so obsolete that he was becoming depressed and, dare he say it, lonely. His company could run without him, he had many loyal employees working under him; Wren had his family and mate. There wasn't even an arch enemy out there who's quest for revenge meant Aristotle had to keep fit and on his toes. Damn it, some mornings he didn't even get out of bed!

That's why he was going away, to see if he can rediscover something of his old self out in the world. He was even going to do it all the human way, no flashing himself hither and thither for convenience. If he caught a plane that was delayed then he would have to wait those four hours, or if his car broke down he'd pull to the side of the road and hitchhike to the local gas station. Yeah, Aristotle thought, he was planning on getting some peace and tranquillity away from New York and he was going to do it the good old fashioned human way.

Imogene Butler carefully lifted the phone from its cradle; she covered the mouth piece with her hand and held it to her ear.

"Hello?" she heard her husband's voice answer, he had picked up from the kitchen.

"Hey baby," a sweet and enticing voice sounded from the other end of the line, it was lightly accented making Imogene think of a stunning Scandinavian beauty, with perfect breasts and platinum blond hair down to her ass.

"Ah, this isn't a good time," Imogene's husband Mike said, by the sound of his voice she was sure he was looking over his shoulder to check if she was around.

"Oh, why? Is your wife around?" the voice said, evidently fearing she'd gotten him in trouble.

"Well, she's somewhere around," he muttered, "I told you not to call me at home."

"Oh, like she'll find out, I'd just pretend I dialled the wrong number."

"Natasha, don't get cocky," Mike warned, "you make trouble for me and it ends!"

"I'm not making trouble for you," the voice whined, "I just want to see you. Can't you come around for a while, I miss you."

She heard Mike chuckle stupidly, "it's my day off. She'll get suspicious if I say I'm going into the office today."

The voice begged some more and Mike relented but only after lots of I-want and I-need-you's and plenty of fuck-me-all-around-the-rooms. Imogene felt her stomach churn as Mike agreed and gave some lewd suggestions as to where Natasha should be and what she should be wearing when he went to meet her. As they said their goodbyes Imogene eased the phone back into place and looked at her pale and wounded reflection in her oval, white framed mirror on top of her vanity table. She heard Mike come jogging up the stairs and opened her laptop and put on her glasses as if pretending to be in the middle of something. She heard the door open and didn't bother to look over her shoulder; he walked into their shared bedroom that also doubled as an office for Imogene. Since Mike was the main breadwinner, all because his male ego couldn't stand the thought of Imogene earning as much as him, he got to have the house's spacious office for himself. Imogene readily agreed to this and thought to set up office in one of the spare bedrooms but he had insisted that if he's mother came to stay the house would be a wreck. He slowly found fault with anywhere she chose to set up office so instead she carted the stuff around the house with her to whatever place might be suitable and empty at the time. All this for an easy life with a picky, fussy, difficult man who Imogene now realised was cheating on her.

"Who was that on the phone?" Imogene muttered indifferently, staring at the line of black ink on the page she was supposed to be reading.

"Darren from work. Needs help. Got to go in," Mike explained in short, sharp sentences.

"But its your day off," Imogene said and heard him pause behind her, she flicked her gaze up to see him reflected in the mirror, he was checking which jacket went better with his shirt.

"I know, Idgie," he said distractedly, it stung that he used his old pet name for her so casually when he was about to go off and meet another woman. Imogene coldly pushed it aside and concentrated on keeping her voice deceptively casual. "I'm sorry about this; I'll make it up to you."

"Don't be sorry, honey," she replied sweetly, "if you need to go, you need to go."

"I knew you'd understand," Mike said, suddenly looking elated that he wouldn't meet with anything that might hinder his booty call, Imogene smiled icily.

Mike left soon after, taking the Mercedes out the drive like it was on fire and zooming down the street. Imogene waited until the sound of his car was gone and all she could hear was the distant sounds of Mr Turner's record player, he always played the old vinyl records. Sometimes Imogene found herself waltzing around the house to his tunes, which were nearly always musicals. It was his music that she'd come to associate with the boredom and silence of her own house in the middle of the working week. And now her weekends.

Imogene looked back at the page she was supposed to be reading, she'd always wanted to be a writer but Mike had ridiculed her ambition so much that she stowed it away. But just so she didn't go mad with the overload of creative juices flowing through her, Imogene regularly attended a writers club, a reading club and wrote plays for the amateur dramatics society now and again.

Though Mike didn't actually know all this, he got a very watered down version of the reading club. He wanted a wife and a home-maker not some opinionated writer who would very likely satirise his pompous colleagues and wealthy clients whenever she got the chance. He didn't want to come home everyday to a damned …

Imogene knew Mike didn't know any women writers and she would deliberately suggest ones he hadn't heard of whenever he started this rant. He would dwindle off into a disgruntled silence and glare at the same page of his men's health magazine for an hour. It was because of the sudden lack of these arguments and abrupt lessening of his insinuations that she was getting older and fatter that Imogene suspected something was going on. And it was: Natasha. Imogene had never seen the husband stealing bitch but Mike had mentioned a couple of times casually over dinner about the new receptionist, who couldn't type fast enough but was a friendlier face then his old one. Imogene had congratulated him at the time for finding someone who could work all those tough hours, though the Natasha she'd heard on the phone didn't sound like a fifty-nine year old widow from New Jersey with a smokers cough.

Mr Turner's music changed and Imogene's first thought was that he must have swapped his old turn tables for a more modern CD player, then she heard the song and groaned. It was Susan Boyle 'I dreamed a dream'; Imogene didn't particularly like any of those other reality TV shows that they insisted on making. And for weeks after this woman had appeared on British television Imogene had seen the woman none stop in her home, now she was rather sick of it. Imogene wasn't even sure she knew which musical this song was from. With the shock of Mike's exposed infidelity wearing off, numbness had replaced it and it made any thought about anything impossible so Imogene was forced to listen to the song. The more she listened the more appropriate it seemed to be, the words of the song piercing her more then the voice of the woman. She felt emotion bubble up inside her and it had Imogene jumping from her seat and storming down the stairs, intent on going over to Mr Turner and claiming a migraine so he would turn this song down. For Imogene knew that once Mr Turner played a new song, he would wear the thing out until even the recorded voice started to croak with weariness.

Imogene was just walking through the living room, thinking to cut over her back lawn, jump the fence and go through the small alley way that led towards Mr Turners when the words seem to physically stop her in her tracks.

I used to dream my life would be ... something different from this hell I'm living.

So different now from what it seems, life has killed the dream … I dreamed.

With that Imogene went down on her knees in mid-stride and wept bitterly into her hands, the sobs were loud and wrenched straight from her heart. She couldn't believe this was her life! This was how she would exist for the next however many years until she died; she was a washout, a mere speck of dust on the universal stage being trod on while she watched others around her cutting their faces into the stars. She had given up huge chucks of herself until she imagined her soul to be no stronger then gossamer thread, all for a man she thought she loved and who she thought loved her. The injustice of it all made her scream out, she didn't care if people heard her, she didn't care if the police ended up knocking on the door and serving her with some kind of court order for disturbing the peace. She needed to beat on the floor with her fists, she wanted to go into the kitchen and push over those cupboards with Mike's mother's prized china inside. She wanted to put CD's in the microwave and watch the crackling explosion it was likely to make. She wanted to take his American Express and manually push it through the shredder, and put his prized certificates of achievement from school and his diplomas from college into the blender. She wanted to … put the lawn trimmer over all his suits. In spite of her grief Imogene snorted with laughter at that one, her sobs eased a little into quiet hiccups and heavy breathing. Imogene pulled herself up off the floor using the couch and all her remaining strength, when she once again stood tall, she found herself gazing listlessly at all the material things she possessed. That Mike possessed really, he'd bought and paid for the stuff, none of it was to her taste at all, but it was to his mother's taste. Mike was more bloody house proud then she ever had been, her main focus in life was to build memories not consume and gather material things that she couldn't take with her into the hereafter. Mike had never appreciated this 'jumble of hobo, hippy nonsense' as he put it and demanded she pick the curtains she wanted or he'd pick it for her. Imogene's eyes passed over the window that looked out to her front lawn and the street, immediately they focused on a stranger there. Imogene was shocked out of her crying by his appearance in her neighbourhood, they never got strangers here. This maddeningly perfect suburban street was something straight out of Desperate Housewives except without the juicy drama. Imogene would have gladly taken life on Wisteria Lane with all its psychos and insane neighbours, then the one Mike had built for them in Maple Bowers. This stranger was intriguing by the fact that he wasn't anything like the men on Maple Bowers who were everything Wasps were expected to be. Yet Imogene couldn't actually put her finger on what was different about him and decided that she had simply imagined him to be different because she'd just faced the reality of how much she truly hated her life and nearly suffered a break down over it.

He was taller then the average male with Imogene estimating from her vantage point that he was just under six feet or thereabouts. He was also extremely handsome, a more handsome man she didn't think she'd ever seen and that included the young men in the area who were at their peak of physical excellence. This man who was undoubtedly reaching his forty mark like herself, though looking wonderful for it, beat all those younger men hands down. He had an arrogant look about him, well it could have been confidence but Imogene wasn't feeling generous to the male sex at that moment. And he stank of wealth which grated on Imogene and turned her against him more then anything. He probably had a beautiful wife somewhere whom he was cheating on with a ditzy employee who was practically an infant, because that's what all the members of the good old boys club did. Imogene noticed that not only was she staring but the man was staring back at her through the window, her window! Imogene snarled at him and walked out of sight, as she made her way back upstairs she found herself crying again, she ended up sitting in the middle of the staircase sobbing into the carpet.

Aristotle raised his eyebrows in surprise, he'd only stood outside the woman's house so he could get a fuller look at the house directly across the street, he was renting for the time he was going to be in this place. It was only when he had heard the sobbing that he'd looked through the window and seen a woman in there in the midst of deep despair. He had wondered whether or not he ought to get help from a neighbour who knew her, it was very likely that in a place like this all the Stepford wives knew each other and their business. But she had stopped abruptly and stared around the room not in anger but as if she were in the middle of a field where a battle had just taken place and her furniture was the broken, bloody bodied of the soldiers who had died needlessly and for nothing. Her grief had been so strong it made Aristotle wonder whether someone dear to her had died. Shaking his head with a sigh he returned his attention to the house over the road, he tried not to grimace, Wren would likely crack a rib laughing if he saw what Aristotle would be living in. Aristotle had never been one for interior design per se but he did like modern conveniences, he also liked space. This house looked … fussy. Like an old woman who smelt like cats lived and died in it. Aristotle walked over to it and up to the front door, the immaculately kept lawn was flourishing, he took out the key the estate agent had given him and slotted it into the white wooden door. The door had a strip of frosted glass in it that blurred Aristotle's view of the hallway, it swung inward and Aristotle wondered if this was his hell. He'd never seen anything so fussy or neat or clean, it was disturbing. Lace doilies were placed on beautiful wooden furniture that like naturally beautiful women needed no adornments to draw attention to them. There was a strong smell of lavender in the air, Aristotle had never been particularly partial to the scent, under it was an old stale smell of must. There was still a rocking chair in the living room by the fireplace which would have been beautiful if it hadn't been so ostentatious. Aristotle shuddered as he had an image of a skeletal old lady rocking in it with a skeletal grey cat sitting on her lap.

"I can't stay here," Aristotle muttered desperately and actually had to stop himself from running, instead he walked swiftly to the door. As he opened it he almost run over a tiny little man that reminded him of the tiny teacher he'd seen in one of the Harry Potter movies.

"Oh, hello," the man said joyfully, he had a squeaky voice that suited his size and was strangely cute; Aristotle was stuck for words for a moment.

"Hi," he said and then remembered his manners, "I'm Aristotle Tigarian."

"Yes, I know," the man chuckled, "the neighbourhood has just been buzzing with excitement. A new neighbour is a friend waiting to be as my mother always used to say. I'm Drew. We expected you yesterday?"

The man said it without inflection but Aristotle sensed the curiosity and saw he's sharp little eyes taking in more and more with every second.

"Yes, the plane was delayed," Aristotle answered and Drew made a sympathetic tutting noise.

"Those damn things are never on time, are they?" Drew complained and Aristotle was about to comment that they would have been if he had taken his private jet. But now Aristotle was glad he'd stuck to his guns and taken a commercial flight, otherwise it looked like he'd have had a welcoming committee on his hands had he arrived on schedule.

"Well, I really wanted to come over and just say hi and see that you're settling in," Drew said oily and Aristotle's Were senses detected something decidedly crafty and cunning in Drew's character.

"Well, that's very kind of you, I'm settling in just fine," Aristotle assured him politely and Drew nodded and still loitered on the doorstep, Aristotle refused to ask him inside.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Well, I feel rather silly asking you about this, you being new and all and," Drew chuckled sweetly, "its such bad manners, what would my mother say."

"Oh, I'm sure it's not so bad," Aristotle said with gentility.

"Well," Drew spoke as if it absolutely pained him to be broaching the subject but Aristotle scented something entirely different from him. "Diana, the woman who lived here before you rented it, God rest her dear and generous soul. She was very fond of me and she told me on her death bed that I could have her dinner service."

"Oh, the solid silver one?" Aristotle inquired with an air of polite interest.

"Oh, you've seen it?"

"No, but that's usually the case with these things," Aristotle replied so smoothly that Drew didn't actually know what was implied. "I'm sorry but I have no authority to give away the items in this house. I'm sure the lady would have made her wishes known to a lawyer or even the estate agent before she died."

"Oh," Drew said evidently crestfallen, they bade each other a polite goodbye and Drew moved on down the street. Aristotle shook his head with an exasperated sigh and wondered if he's inspired idea to find his purpose in the world wasn't a bit of a mistake. Aristotle turned to go back inside and prepare to flash himself back to New York.

"Excuse me, young man?" Aristotle smiled even before he turned; it had been a rather long time since he'd been referred to as such. Aristotle eyed an athletic looking older woman in her late sixties; her iron grey hair was cut in a neat straight bob and held back by an Alice band. She was dressed in black slacks and a white shirt with a cardigan over the top; she held grocery bags in each hand.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, you may," she said in a brisk voice that said she didn't stand for nonsense, "I want you to know that Diana who lived here didn't even like Drew Murdoch, and she never wanted him to have her silver dinner service."

"Is that right?" Aristotle said with an amused smile.

"That is," she said definitely, "so don't you part with any of the belongings in this house, you hear?"

When he had nodded she gave him one nod and then her stern face softened.

"These are for you," she dumped the groceries into his arms and Aristotle had to laugh at how endearing her brashness was.

"Would you like a cup of tea or something?"

"Yes, that would be lovely. I'm Mari."

Aristotle stepped aside and allowed the woman entry; she walked in with a confidence that told him she must have been acquainted with the last owner. They settled at the kitchen table both supplied with a cup of tea and a slice of fruit cake that Mari had bought from the local bakers.

"Diana wanted that dinner service to go to Imogene," Mari said, sipping her tea daintily.

"Oh?"

"Yes, she's the woman directly across the street from you. A gem of a woman," Mari declared, "nursed Diana through her illness until it got so bad she had to be taken to a hospice. Drew had been Diana's neighbour for twenty years and we didn't see hide or hair of him until the funeral. But Imogene couldn't have treated the woman better if it had been her own daughter doing the caring."

"She sounds like quite a woman," Aristotle muttered and Mari nodded.

"She's such a happy soul, brings light into a room I swear it."

Aristotle didn't mention that what he'd seen through Imogene's living room window had been anything but happiness.

"She's not wishy-washy or silly. She doesn't fawn over people, and do you know, I like that! She has an original and expansive mind, she's an intellect without being showy about it, you know? Too good for the rest of the feebs around here. And for that idiot husband of hers."

"Hmm," Aristotle made a noise that had Mari raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Well, most smart women don't tend to marry idiots."

"Love makes fools of everyone, dear. Besides people rarely marry for love."

"No?"

Mari pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes on him as if she couldn't decide if he was dense or if he was simply acting like he was.

"Hmm," she clucked her tongue in an 'oh well' kind of way before reaching into her bag and pulling out a fist full of leaflets.

"Here."

She thrust them over the tables surface to him, Aristotle looked down at them and saw they were advertisements for the local reading club, a writers society, an amateur dramatics group, a choir, band practice, flower arranging, dress making and a rather out of place one that advertised paint balling, Mari tapped it. "My favourite. You should see the bruises."

Aristotle laughed and was about to slid the pamphlets back when she stopped his hand, Aristotle looked up to see Mari giving him a serious look.

"You look through these or you find something else, but do something. Believe me, I have lived in this street long enough to know that without something to take your mind off of the apparent perfection of everybody else's lives, you go bat shit."

Aristotle laughed heartily and nodded, he couldn't help but like Mari.

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, unless you want people to talk I would not suggest flower arranging or dress making. Despite the dullness of the pamphlet the reading and writers clubs are worth going to, and I always sit in on the amateur dramatics rehearsals so I can jeer from the front row. If you turn up to watch they will put on their best performance and it will be a hoot."

Aristotle nodded, fully intending never to set foot anywhere near any of the societies, even though reading and the theatre were passions of his.

"Well," Mari said briskly, draining her cup, "I'm going now. It was nice meeting you, Mr Tigarian. Such an interesting name …"

She let herself out and Aristotle chortled as he cleaned away their cups and plates, he tried not to think ahead to the endless amount of time he would have with nothing to fill it once this menial task was finished.

The plan to leave Maple Bowers as soon as possible was put on hold by virtue of the fact that planes back to New York were being cancelled and delayed because of serious weather warnings being put out over the state. Aristotle could have just flashed himself back home but his commitment to his 'entirely human' vacation stopped him. Instead he paced the length and breadth of his new home in his were form, slowly driving himself insane. By six o clock, night had fallen dark and thick along with pelting rain that said driving for the average human, who didn't possess his refined instincts, would be incredibly dangerous. Aristotle could no longer stand it and needed to get out and do something that involved physical exertion, though he decided to settle for something as athletic as walking to the local starbucks.

Aristotle turned up his collar on his Burberry overcoat and set off for the high street that wasn't that far. Soon the rain ran through his hair and dripped off his nose, he growled at how ridiculous he must look to all those people that spied him walking around through their living room windows. Turning the corner Aristotle walked parallel with the high iron fencing that ran around the park, he scented freshly planted pine and willow there and it made him long to take his animal form and run wild. He didn't give into this urge but he did turn into the park when up ahead he spied a police patrol car slowly turning the end corner. Aristotle knew a stranger in such a close knit community as this would incite police interest for a day or two until he proved he wasn't a threat to their well-constructed lives. Tonight, however, Aristotle was in absolutely no mood to play the wealthy gentleman persona that he projected. Not when it was pouring down with rain and he was soaked through to his underpants. Aristotle moved deeper into the shadows and waited for the glare from the headlights to wash over the gate entrance then dim as the car passed. He turned and began to walk further into the parks dark interior, the air was wet and humming with sounds and scents of suburban wildlife. Nothing like the wilds of Asia where he was born, but then what was? Aristotle heard a noise and predatory instinct demand that he freeze and move into a fighters stance, a bush up ahead rustled and out came a racoon. The racoon looked towards Aristotle with suspicious eyes that were glowing like to orbs as they hit the street light. It sniff the air then turned tail and ran, the animalistic need in his blood to hunt overrode his sense of caution and Aristotle found himself transformed into that of a tiger and giving chase down the carefully tarmacked path. Aristotle allowed the racoon quite a head start so the chase would not be so one-sided or over so soon. The racoon scarpered off the path and into the undergrowth, Aristotle gave chase his paws making deep impressions in the wet earth. His powerful body caused massive ruptures in the neatly manicured flowerbeds and raked up deep groves through the grass. When he used the thick trunks of the trees as leverage when he had to pivot quickly to keep the rodent in his sight, the sheer force of his weight did cause some of the closer to the surface roots to erupt through the earth. The rain eased off and so did Aristotle, he could hear the heartbeat of the racoon. His animal side told him to end the hunt by killing his prey but his human side refused, he had wanted sport and he had been given that, there was no reason to kill the poor creature who had already been frightened enough. Aristotle stretched and leapt over one of the low flowerbeds, that had miraculously survived his rampage, and into the pathway once more. He was about to transform when he heard a shrill shriek, which seemed overly loud in the silence that encompassed the nights in Maple Bowers, for the people here were decent and wholesome and never went out past nightfall if they could help it. Aristotle turned to see a woman standing in the pathway clutching her handbag against her chest as if it were a shield and would actually protect her should Aristotle wish to attack. Fortunately for her he was as shocked and shaken by her presence as she was his and he turned immediately and galloped into the trees, demolishing the flowerbed that had remained victoriously intact through his frenzy. Aristotle transformed as soon as he was out of sight, put clean clothes on himself and flashed himself to the gate of the park, he was about to step out when he saw the police car from earlier.

Damn, Aristotle thought, they must circle the neighbourhood!

It returned with a much livelier pace and Aristotle just missed being seen for he stepped back before the headlights caught his presence. With no way to go except back to the park, Aristotle ran back to the hysterical woman, she saw him coming and run to him, throwing herself dramatically into his arms, shaking from head to foot. It struck Aristotle as funny as he tried to calm her, that Maple Bowers must be the only place left on earth where a woman would throw herself at a complete stranger in the middle of a park at night and not expect to be raped or murdered.

"Shush now," Aristotle said kindly, "what's the matter?"

"Didn't you see it?" the woman sobbed into his chest, her hands fisted tightly in his lapels, ""a tiger! A dirty, great tiger! It jumped out of the bushes and charged at me!"

Aristotle cringed when the woman let out a wail and felt very offended by not only her description of him but of her exaggeration, granted people tended to see things differently when they were scared, but still … he hardly charged at her!

There were sounds of heavy panting and running footsteps from behind them, Aristotle tried to turn but found himself held in place by the woman's immobile body. To make things easier he hoisted her off her feet and turned with her, the police had upholstered their guns and were aiming them with apparent inexperience at him. Aristotle knew that with trigger happy, rooky cops awkward situations could become dangerous, so he allowed them to set the pace.

"What the hell is going on here?" a fat, bald one demanded angrily, he looked suspiciously at Aristotle then towards the woman. "Are you alright, Ms Martin? Did this man hurt you?"

"She would hardly be clinging to me if I had," Aristotle couldn't resist saying and just managed to not roll his eyes.

"Shut it, wise ass," the bald one said again and he and his partner, a younger but no less balder one, exchanged uneasy looks. "Put your hands where we can see them!"

Aristotle did so without a sigh, which he thought was commendable, and raised his hands from the woman's shoulders to the height of his own head, palms out.

"As you can see I have nothing that could cause any harm," Aristotle said briskly, "why don't you ask Ms Martin here what happened? I believe she said she saw a tiger in here."

The cops blinked at him then the fat one spoke up again, "is that right, Ms Martin?" he said in gentle tones, the type used on distraught kids and the mentally ill.

Ms Martin nodded fervently into Aristotle's coat, the cops exchanged looks and holstered there guns, Aristotle tried to pry the woman from him but she clung like a bur. He gave the younger cop a you-know-what-females-are-like look and let his hands drop to his side.

"A tiger?" the young one repeated dumbly, "in the park?"

"It was there," Ms Martin protested, raising her head slightly so she could look at the older cop, "officer Moran, I did see it!"

"Ms Martin -" the detective began bracingly but trailed off when she broke away from Aristotle to glare at the cop.

"You're sure it wasn't me you saw and I frightened you?" Aristotle ventured, trying to play the good citizen.

"No, I know what I saw!" she said angrily, "for God sake, I'm hardly going to misinterpret you for a tiger, am I?"

Got that right, Aristotle said and repressed a mocking smile.

"Look, if you don't believe me check over there," Ms Martin pointed to the flowerbeds and trees, "that's where it ran."

Detective Moran and his partner exchanged looks, took out their guns and their flashlights and proceeded into the darkness. There was a certain number of rustling sounds and then 'holy shit!' rent the air, Aristotle knew they had found his paw prints and the mess he'd made. He cringed.

Moran and his partner came hurrying back and they inarticulately hustled Aristotle and Ms Martin back to the park entrance.

"Ms Martin, I believe you might be right," Moran said, white in the face as if he'd just witnessed the scene of a brutal and sick crime.

"Couldn't it have been a raccoon or a fox?" Aristotle said, hoping to deter them, Moran gave him a peeved look.

"There are no foxes and raccoons around here," he said tartly.

"Well, I saw a raccoon while I was walking through there," Aristotle said and Moran rolled his eyes.

"I highly doubt that, sir," Moran said, his every word dripping sarcasm, "and even if you had, a raccoon could not have made that kind of damage."

Aristotle didn't say anything else but waited for instructions while the young cop called in what they'd found over his radio.

"What were you doing in there anyway?" Moran asked rudely and Aristotle raised his eyebrow.

"Saving a damsel in distress, you?"

"I'm hardly a damsel," Ms Martin said giddily, "but you are right, you did save me. I believe you scared it away."

Aristotle gave her a gentlemanly bow of the head before addressing Moran again.

"If you must know a lady in this area invited me to a local book club, I was going there and decided to cut through the park."

"Was that you going into the park about half and hour ago?" Moran said, even more suspicious now.

"More like an hour ago, but yes it was."

"You spent all that time in the park?"

"Well, I am new here and it is a big park. I lost my way and turned back, thinking to skip the book club until next time."

Moran gave a small nod which just looked like a sneer to Aristotle, it said plainly that Moran thought there was something wrong with a man that would go to a reading club. Aristotle turned to the lady who was watching him with adulation.

"What were you doing there in the dark, Ms Martin?" Aristotle asked, she blushed as she spoke to him and batted her lashes a little.

"I was just going for a walk," she replied casually but Aristotle sensed the lie, "I always like to walk in the park at night, its much more mysterious and … romantic at night."

Aristotle nodded politely thinking that was bullshit, the only thing the park was at night was darker and more dangerous.

Imogene sat at the rounded table in the library, the one they always brought out for the club meetings. It had a nice selection of sandwiches and sweets and a pitcher of lemonade and a flask of coffee, Imogene always took one cup of black coffee, but never drank it. She would just sit with it in her hands while everyone talked about everything but the book they had meant to read. Imogene doubted that many of them had read the thing at all, Mari was the only one Imogene could say for sure had read it because like her, Mari loved to read. Unlike Imogene, however, Mari loved to hear gossip and it was that which kept the old woman coming to the completely pointless meetings. Imogene regularly skipped the meetings, she only came tonight because she could not stand being in that house alone tonight. She and Mari usually talked about the books in depth when Mari would come over to her house during the day with a batch of cookies, or something which was usually the produce of whatever hobby had taken her fancy that week. The one reason that Imogene allowed Mari close to her was because for all her love of gossip, she was not a spreader of it, she just liked to listen and then make fun about it behind closed doors. Imogene leaned back so she could see around Mari to the window, she thanked God that the rain had eased off, which would make one less hazard on the drive home, since they were taking Mari's car.

Imogene sighed, thinking that she wished she'd stayed at home instead of being here with these twits, when she saw a patrol car pull up outside the library. She frowned and leant back even further to get a better look, she wasn't the only one who had spotted it and it brought the meeting to a halt. Officer Moran got out of the car with his partner, Steckles, they were followed by Ms Meredith Martin and … the stranger!

All four made their way into the library and came to a halt in front of the meeting table, Moran was looking stupidly pleased with himself, Steckles was just looking stupid as usual, Ms Martin was looking a little flustered at being caught by her neighbours looking so obviously dishevelled. But the stranger … he looked bored, unruffled, disinterested and thoroughly relaxed even though every woman in the place had lit up at the sight of him. Every woman that was except Imogene, her dislike for him had been put on hold because of the shock seeing him had given her, but there was still that confident, rich man thing he had going which took all the appeal from him.

"Sorry to disturb you all," Moran said his voice edged with laughter, "but I believe I've picked up one of your flock."

Everyone looked at him blankly and Moran rolled his eyes as if to say, woman were never bright enough to find his wit funny.

"I'll leave you with the ladies then, shall I?" Moran said snidely to the stranger and left with Steckles trailing behind him. Ms Martin bid the stranger a heart felt farewell, she squeezed his hand between her own as she wished fervently that they would meet again. Imogene thought she was going to get down on bended knee as she thanked him for all his help, to all this drama the stranger just nodded politely and when Ms Martin left he turned to the group. It was the first time Imogene had seen something looking like awkwardness or worry cross his face since he'd arrived, Mari was the one to break the silence.

"You've been causing trouble already, have you?" she said severely, but there was a twinkle in her eyes and a smile of her mouth that said she thought it was all great fun. Mari kicked a chair out and nodded to it.

"Take a seat."

The stranger did so, taking off his coat and folding it neatly over the chair, then seating himself nodding politely to the women that caught his eye as he scooted in place.

"Everybody this is Aristotle Tigarian," Mari announced to the curious onlookers, "moved in across the street from Imogene and me."

Everybody smiled and tittered, saying hello and how are you, he accepted this with grace but Imogene got the feeling he didn't like being the centre of attention.

"I apologise if I interrupted your meeting," he said.

"So you should be," Mari said abruptly, "we was just about the get the cauldron out when you arrived!"

Imogene snorted into her coffee and chuckled outright when she saw the sour looks Mari was getting, she glanced at Aristotle and saw his face beaming with silent laughter.

"Well, maybe if I prove my worth you'll give me a lift home on your broomstick."

Mari cackled and slapped her thigh while the rest of the women began to crowd closer to inspect the new lion that had wandered into the den.

"You take care now, Ms Martin!" Moran called out his window when he and Steckles dropped Ms Martin back home. When the woman had closed the door behind her, Moran eased the car away from the curb and back on to the road, driving swiftly down the road.

"Where we going?" Steckles asked, Moran threw him a look out the corner of his eye.

"Back to the park," he said, "animal control should be there by now."

"Perhaps we should have waited there …" Steckles muttered and Moran scoffed at him but knew he was right.

"I wanted to see nancy-boy dropped off at the library," Moran sneered, thinking resentfully of how the guy was probably thrilling all the women with the tale of his supposed rescue of the Martin woman. "What kind of guy wants to read?"

"Yeah," Steckles agreed.

"See the way Meredith Martin was looking at him?"

"Yeah."

"Like he was fucking God or some shit!"

"Yeah."

"Probably a faggot anyway, looks like he just walked out of GQ magazine, walking around the park at night. Probably hoping to catch one of the kids smoking pot in there, so he can come up behind them unawares."

"Yeah."

"All those women gonna be disappointed as shit when he turns around in three months time and he's got a guy living with him."

Moran growled and his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, he was working himself up, there was something about the guy that just didn't quite click.

"You know what else I didn't like?" Moran said, licking his dry lips in agitation.

"What?"

"He was in that place about an hour, right? And he walked in there when it was pissing down with rain, right?"

Steckles nodded with a blank expression.

"Well, why wasn't his coat wet?"

"Huh?"

"His coat! His overcoat? Why wasn't it wet if he had been walking about for an hour in the rain while lost in the park?"

"Oooh yeah," Steckles said as if the meaning of life had been revealed, "damn, Pete, why ain't you a private detective with a nose like you gots?"

Moran tried not to look so satisfied but Steckles was looking at him in awe, like he was Einstein or something. Moran shrugged, people never give him credit for how smart he actually was, that's why Steckles was the best partner because even the simplest things were major conundrums to him. Moran pulled up outside the park, he looked over to Steckles, thinking he'd tested the guy's brain a bit too much and for the acknowledgement of Moran's intellect, Moran brought the level of conversation to something they both enjoyed.

"You see the tits on Imogene Butler in there?"

"Hell yeah!"

And they both guffawed stupidly as they got out the car.

Imogene tried not to study Aristotle under her lashes but it was rather hard, and she wasn't the only one, even Mari flushed a little as he smiled at her. He was very handsome, that was for sure. He's blond hair was so light it was almost platinum in some places. Imogene eyed it jealously, with hair that colour it would be very hard to detect grey hair, then again he may already have grey hair and just dye it. Some how Imogene couldn't see it, he didn't project that self-obsession and vanity it took for a man to colour his hair. Everything about his physical form said wealth but nothing about him boasted it, but then again just because he wasn't conceited enough to do it in a room full of people didn't mean he wouldn't do it in time. She refused to talk to him or meet his eye, she just stared into her coffee and hoped to never see him again. She could only imagine what had gone through his mind when he'd caught her crying through her window, though it was her window and he shouldn't have been looking through it. She hated the fact that he'd seen part of her break down and no doubt heard it, she hoped she was imagining it but she could swear she saw him giving her shifty looks as if he was sizing her up to see if she was mentally stable. Imogen looked at her watch and saw that they had gone over half an hour because everyone was so interested in Aristotle that no one had called last orders. Imogen nudged Mari and tapped her watch, Mari reluctantly agreed and told everyone that it was time to be going. All the women in the room, all of whom lived their lives by the minutes on a clock, groaned at having to go home. Imogene made to stand up when Mrs Gurdy called attention.

"Imogene, dear, it's your turn to suggest a book for the club."

"Oh," Imogene said and blinked when all their eyes came on her, "okay …"

Imogene's mind went blank, she'd wanted it to be her turn for ages, she'd had to go for weeks where half the women were intent on picking romances from Catherine Cookson and Danielle Steel, while the other half were picking ridiculously intellectual stuff like Utopia or War and Peace. Imogene was an avid reader and had read most of the trash and most of the highbrow crap too, if not in her own time then while she was studying at college. But she was also a fair person and didn't want to choose a book to be difficult or to show off her knowledge.

"What about Wide Sargasso Sea?" Imogene suggested, many of the women groaned and exchanged pained looks, the title wasn't associated with Jodi Picoult and therefore was alien to them.

"Why that one?" Mrs Gurdy asked politely, as meeting leader she had to be impartial.

"Well, we've just finished Jane Eyre and Jean Rhys book is like a post-colonial reply to it …"

Imogene let her voice trail off to silence.

"Okay then," Imogene tried again, "what about a crime novel by Raymond Chandler? The Big Sleep is good."

They all blinked.

"Oliver Twist? You know, its not all like the movie."

Nothing.

"Pride and Prejudice or George Orwell's Nineteen eighty-four?"

Nada.

"How about a play?"

Zilch.

Damn, they were hard work! Imogene didn't see the point of going to a book club when all people ever read was love stories that had no plot but to allow the reader to escape into a lusty fantasy for half the day. Imogene had nothing against it but variety was good too. The meeting continued to dissolve until they were all walking out the door with their coats on and the issue of the next book left undecided.

"Nice try," Mari said out the side of her mouth and she and Imogene walked to the door, Aristotle had been kept at the door by his gentlemanly insistence on helping everyone on with their coats and holding open the door. Imogene approached and Aristotle swept his hand out gallantly, she nodded frostily and moved into the night air which made her shiver.

"How are you getting home?" Imogene heard Mari ask and she bit her tongue to stop her turning around and hissing to Mari not to ask him along.

"I'm going to walk," Aristotle said and Mari waved her hand.

"Tish, you'll ride right along with us in Bertha."

"Bertha?"

"Her mustang," Imogene informed him with a slight acidity to her voice, Aristotle held her eyes for a few seconds before turning to Mari and smiling.

"That would be lovely."

Imogene tried not to feel too sour as the three of them walked back to the car, Mari was keeping the conversation alive and Aristotle listened well and replied when necessary but Imogene got the idea he wasn't much interested in Mari's prattle. The ride home went very much the same way with Mari's voice becoming like a radio in Imogene's mind as she thought of how she would return to the house and Mike would be there. He'd have timed it just right so that he came home while she was out and washed the evidence of his infidelity from his body and clothes.

"How come you got a police escort?" Mari asked Aristotle, she was looking shrewdly through the rear view mirror at him. Imogene pulled herself from her thoughts to listen also, for Moran wasn't the philanthropic type that would give a stranger a ride, unless she was a woman with sizable breasts.

"I thought to walk through the park on my way here, I got lost in there and when I turned back Ms Martin was screaming in the middle of the path that she'd seen a tiger."

"What?" Imogene said, for once her voice was devoid of coldness.

"That's what she said she saw," Aristotle said bracingly and shrugged.

"Meredith was always of the unusual type. When we were children her mother sent her to a therapist … and you know, in them days that wasn't as acceptable as it is now."

"Its not accepted now," Imogene commented testily, "they hardly roll out the red carpets for the mentally ill, people would still rather sweep them under a carpet."

"True," Mari said pursing her lips, "still … I don't think they straightened all the kinks out of her, if you know what I mean?"

Imogene snorted with laughter and shook her head, her eyes flicked over the rear view mirror and saw that Aristotle was staring at her, she frowned and turned her eyes to the passenger window.

Mari pulled up at the corner of the road and told them to get out, when Imogene asked her where she was going Mari smiled wickedly.

"Where do you think? To see if Meredith Martin wants to borrow any kitty litter!"

She cackled and drove off quickly down the street, Imogene turned to see Aristotle looking at her, she gave a half hearted shrug and began to walk down towards her house. Aristotle fell into pace with her and stayed quiet, as much as she didn't like him she found his presence and his silence comforting.

"Mari sure is something," he commented after they'd gone a few steps, Imogene made a subtle noise of agreement and nothing else. "She's very … vibrant."

"That she is," Imogene sighed without interest. Contrary to how she was behaving Mari was one of Imogene's favourite topics, it tickled Imogene's sense of humour that Mari was everything that people wouldn't expect. Imogene liked that the woman didn't look like the true eccentric that she was, she liked that she wasn't superficial or fickle. The woman had travelled the world - by herself - in her youth, had been married three times and divorced twice and was now living comfortably with the love of her life who was a quiet, elderly Japanese gentleman whom she affectionately referred to as Nitz. Mari was everything Imogene wished she had been, was and would be once she reached Mari's age, but it wasn't to be and with that thought Imogene's mood went from dismal to positively black.

"She thinks a lot of you," Aristotle said lightly, "she told me you cared for the woman who was in my house?"

"So what?" Imogene was feeling so angry she couldn't be bothered to keep up the pretence of being polite.

"So that was kind of you," Aristotle laughed as if amused by her rudeness, like she was some quirky little pass time that he would use to entertain himself until he reached home, like most men did.

"I only did it for the silver tea service," Imogene informed him scathingly, and he pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully.

"Well, you must have done a good job because apparently she left it to you."

Imogene almost let her lips twitch even though she was still furious, she stopped and turned to him scowling darkly.

"Why are you even here?"

"On the street or in Maple Bowers?" Aristotle asked, deliberately confusing the question, Imogene snarled disgustedly and Aristotle laughed at her, knowing it would make her even angrier.

"What kind of name is Aristotle anyway?" she hissed resentfully and began walking again, her hands tucked into her coat pockets, "Your mother must have really loved you, naming you that."

Aristotle smiled and shook his head, "what is it that you really cannot stomach about me?"

Imogene shrugged unrepentantly before answering without care, "I don't like wealthy men."

"God, you are a hypocrite," he said casually as if commenting on how cold the night air was, Imogene's eyes flashed darkly when she looked at him.

"What?"

"If you live on this street you're hardly on the breadline, and since I saw you in your living room in the middle of the day I know you don't work. So how do you live? Off of your wealthy husband."

"Who said I liked him?" Imogene said sharply before she could stop herself, Aristotle raised an eyebrow and flicked a look up to her house, Imogene stood beside him on the damp street and stared at it also. The lights were on in the living room, Imogene wished that she could close her eyes and when she opened them she would be anywhere but here.

"Would you like to come in for coffee?" Aristotle asked suddenly and Imogene shook her head sadly, her hair fell forward and covered her face as she stared down at the grit on the road.

"No," Imogene muttered and with a resilient sigh pushed her hair behind her ears and stepped into the road. "Goodnight," she said softly as if they were parting from a conversation that hadn't been fraught with rudeness and animosity.

"Goodnight."

Aristotle yawned widely as he buttoned up his shirt, he stared at himself in the mirror pondering that which he had been to tired to think of last night. The torrential rain the night before had blown itself out completely and today was bright and clear without any trace of last night's bad weather. It was very likely that with this weather he might have been able to get a plane back to New York but he decided to put his plans for leaving off for a few days. As much as he wanted to dislike Imogene, he hadn't been able to get the woman out of his head. Perhaps it was because he had seen what he wasn't supposed to, so when he began to mentally bad mouth her he would begin to wonder whether her animosity was the result of something that wasn't anything to do with him at all. There was something very hurt inside her and he was curious to know what. So he waited until he saw a car with a man inside pull out of her driveway he went over to her house. He rapped hard on the front door with his knuckles and waited for her, he heard her light footsteps and relished the sight of her surprised eyes as she realised who it was.

"Good morning," Aristotle said nicely.

"Good … morning," Imogene said slowly, she looked up and down the street, "I'm sorry, do you have the right house?"

"Yes, I do," Aristotle chuckled, "I wanted to talk to you."

Imogene nodded and stood back to let him in, Aristotle stepped inside and unbuttoned his jacket casually, she shut the door and led him to the kitchen.

"Would you like something to drink? Would you like some breakfast?"

Aristotle could tell she was hoping he would refuse and that he had caught her completely out of her comfort zone, so he settled himself at her breakfast bar.

"That would be splendid," he said and clasped his hands upon the table and looked at her expectantly.

"Okay … what would you like?"

"What do you normally have?"

"Err, I don't," Imogene said, she was staring at him Aristotle noticed and when she turned away he checked his suit for damage.

"Why do you keep staring at me?" Aristotle asked and was happy when she blushed.

"Because you are wearing a suit," Imogene said trying not to smile, "are you planning on going somewhere?"

"No, I just always wear suits," Aristotle murmured, "should I not?"

"Its up to you," Imogene shrugged and began cracking eggs in a pan, "how does scrambled eggs and bacon sound?"

"Great," Aristotle said, "you are looking particularly fresh faced today."

"Am I?" Imogene snorted in a self-deprecating way.

"You don't believe me?"

"Not a bit," she said so briskly that Aristotle laughed.

He hadn't been lying, Aristotle thought it was a shame that such a beautiful woman was so hard and miserable. Her hair was a dark mocha colour with caramel streaks running through it, her eyes were a bright grey which may not have been pretty to some but her eyes were so big that it caused everyone she blinked her peepers at to take a second look. She was slim and she was average height but those things like height and weight were inconsequential to Aristotle. For some reason her hands fascinated him, they had long, thin fingers and nicely shaped and unpolished nails. He particularly found her natural scent appealing too; it kept changing with her mood. It seemed to vary between something that smelt like the ocean and then to something that was undoubtedly wood smoke. The timbre of her voice was deeper then most women and slightly husky, Aristotle doubted she could make her scream heard even if she put the whole of her lung power into it. And the length of her hair … Aristotle found himself wanting to wrap it as many times as he could around his arm.

Time had past while he had been studying her and she abruptly placed a plate of perfect looking scrambled eggs, bacon and nicely browned toast.

"Thank you, this looks wonderful," Aristotle said.

"Your welcome," she said graciously and coloured slightly, she wrung her hands before standing before the table, Aristotle looked at her expectantly.

"Why have you come here?" she asked desperately.

"To your house?"

She nodded.

"Because I found that I wanted to see you again and ask if you're okay."

Imogene's face crumbled and she looked terribly guilt ridden, "even after how appallingly rude I was to you?"

"Well, I figured there may be a reason for it and I wanted to find out what it was that I had done."

"Oh, it was nothing," Imogene said miserably, "nothing that you have done. How could you?"

Imogene sighed before flashing him her stormy eyes, "you must think I'm a total bitch."

"No," Aristotle said sincerely, "I just think you are a very unhappy woman. And I think you met me at exactly the wrong time because I, for whatever reason, make you even more unhappy."

Imogene gave him a grateful yet shy smile, "you are rather perceptive for a man, you know?"

"People get so hung up on the gender divide - oh, this is delicious!" he said after a mouthful of his eggs.

"Don't you think there is a divide?" Imogene asked.

"Yes, of course. We are all very different … there are always going to be things that I, as a man, think you can't or shouldn't do. And you will always think that there are things I can't understand because I am emotionally stunted and incapable. But I think people like to simplify their problems by blaming it on the fact that men are from Mars and women from Venus."

Aristotle looked up to see her eyes watching him with interest so he carried on talking.

"I think we forget that we are all human beings at the end of the day. That some experiences create a connection between people that supersedes the gender divide and allows them to relate to each other strictly as human beings."

Aristotle took a sip of the orange juice she'd given him but paused with the glass to his lips, "are you smiling?"

Imogene turned away quickly and began to put the pan in the dishwasher, but she was grinning from ear to ear. It had been a long time since she had spoken of things like this with a person and almost never over breakfast. Mike was always far too sleepy or grumpy to be bothered to talk in the morning, always too tired in the evening and the rest of the time he was too interested on what he was going to wear for his meetings with Natasha.

"You know, I went out early this morning and got the library to loan me some of the books you suggested at the reading club."

Imogene looked up in surprise, "really?"

"To be honest I'd read most of them before but I picked up Wide Sargasso Sea and read it this morning."

"You read the whole book in one morning?" Imogene said astonished, she checked her watch, "the morning isn't even over yet."

"I'm a fast reader," Aristotle said with a shrug as if it were nothing, "I always have been."

"You like to read?"

"Love it. What's not to like, right?"

Imogene nodded and they sat in silence while Aristotle finished his meal, Imogene felt a calm sweep over her as she watched him eat food that she had made for him. Imogene realised that she had never once gotten that feeling from watching Mike eat food she had prepared.

"Why did your mother name you Aristotle?" Imogene asked, expecting there to be a rather exceptional story behind it. Aristotle just shrugged and sipped his drink.

"She liked the name."

Imogene laughed, Aristotle smiled, amused by her amusement. He touched the napkin to the sides of his mouth and then placed it beside the plate.

"That was fantastic. Thank you."

His sincere praise warmed her and she happily deposited the empty plate in her dishwasher along with his glass, when she turned back she felt awkward. While she'd been cooking and then he'd been eating they had both had tasks to fulfil, now Imogene did not know what to do.

"May I ask you a question?" Aristotle asked, broaching the subject carefully. He didn't expect a violent emotional reaction from her however, even though what he'd first witnessed from her confirmed that she was capable of deep feeling, the fact that he'd caught her crying in the middle of her living room alone suggested that she wasn't overly keen on public displays of it.

"Hmm," Imogene narrowed her eyes at him playfully, Aristotle scented unease from her, "go on then."

"Why don't you like wealthy men?"

Imogene grimaced at him before answering.

"Perhaps I was just being silly, I didn't even mean it."

The look he gave her was a serious one and he shook his head, "I don't know you very well, Imogene, but you don't look like the type of woman who says anything silly or what she doesn't mean."

Imogene gave a sharp sigh as she was thinking and pursed her lips, it looked as if she were debating whether or not to spill.

"I don't like their attitude," she began and wondered whether they would have enough hours in the day for her to list the ins and outs of what she disliked about men with money.

"I don't like the money solves everything attitude and the money can get you everything one. I don't like that they see living, breathing people as possessions, purchases or commodities. I don't like the generally chauvinistic, arrogant way they have about them. I especially don't like the old boys club … And I don't like how nothing is enough, you know. How they could have what other people dream of and yet its like they feel they deserve more."

He could see this was quite cathartic for her and chose to remain silent, just in case she thought of anything else. When she didn't Aristotle carefully asked his next question.

"Is that why you don't like your husband?"

Imogene flashed those eyes at him again and Aristotle felt heat light up in his chest, he was struck by how beautiful he thought they were.

"Partly," she said ambiguously and Aristotle left it at that, she didn't ask him whether or not he was going to defend his sex because she was quite certain if he wanted to say something he would.

"I'm very wealthy," Aristotle informed her suddenly and he watched her kick up her chin in an involuntary act of defiance.

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said matter of factly, "in fact I'm revoltingly wealthy and I think for a long while I had the money solves everything attitude, I also had the its never enough one."

"You don't now?"

"No, I had revelations which made me realise how unimportant money is. I mean, don't get me wrong I like being wealthy … I love it. Its opened doors to me that would have otherwise remained shut and I think that's true for humans as well as -"

Aristotle bit his tongue, she frowned in confusion, he laughed suddenly.

"Sorry I lost the thread of what I was saying. But what I mean is … money can keep you safe, so I don't bad mouth it. But at the same time I think it is an unwritten rule that says money lost, if you work hard, can be replaced. Friends, family … love, can be lost and never gained back."

"Do you think you are wise?" Imogene asked without a trace of sarcasm.

"No, not at all," Aristotle said with an almost bitter laugh, "I don't think it takes a wise man to say those words, I think it takes a wise man to act by them."

The way Imogene was staring at him made goosebumps rise upon his skin and he had to drag his eyes away from hers, he looked at her clock for something to do and motioned to it. Imogene looked over her shoulder at the time and then back to Aristotle.

"I should be going," he said, though in reality he had no where to go so could have stayed there forever, he got up from the table.

"Aristotle!" Imogene said suddenly, when he looked at her it looked as if she were cursing herself for stopping him, but now he had she had to see it through. "Would you … like to have breakfast with me tomorrow morning?"

Aristotle blinked and gave her a genuinely happy smile, tinged with a touch of shyness, "I would love to."

Imogene nodded, "good. Around the same time?"

"Fine. And thank you for this lovely breakfast."