She sat beside Morocco on the couch, her long supple fingers gently massaging his bruised shoulder, rubbing the liniment into his aching muscles. "I could use someone like you around all the tiem," murmured Morocco. She bent closer, her eyes suddenly a shade darker, and her expression took on a strange, sultry quality. Morocco opened his eyes and saw the signs. He reached up with his good arm and pulled her down to him. "It's hell being a widow, Morocco," she whispered. Morocco pulled her up off the couch and carried her across the room. "I can fix that, baby." he said.
1959.