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She leafed through the photo album, stopping every once in a while to look up at me, and finally she put the book down and said, "I guess you are my husband."

I smiled and thought, "Yes I am Greta, much to your detriment."

Greta married me the week after I graduated from college and the honeymoon wasn't even into its third day before she started fucking around on me. She didn't know that I knew and quite frankly I didn't care that she was doing it. Her first (at least the first I knew about) had been one of the bellboys at the hotel. While we were there she also managed to get the afternoon manager and at least two of the room service waiters. I'm sure that there were more, but again I really didn't care. Greta gave me all I wanted and as long as she didn't fall for some asshole or bring me some nasty disease I was content.

In my own weird way I loved Greta, but her value to me went beyond the beautiful face, the superb body and nymphomanical nature - it was also her money. More specifically it was the money she would get when her parents died. They had something in the neighborhood of sixty-five million dollars that would go to their only child when they departed this vale of tears to go on to the great beyond. I could put up with a hell of a lot of infidelity for a share of that. The key to the treasure chest was to not know, at least so far as anyone else knew, ...

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