13-03-2026, 09:08 PM
(This post was last modified: 13-03-2026, 09:12 PM by heygiwriter. Edited 3 times in total. Edited 3 times in total.)
Chapter 2: She is Cheating on Me!! & - the accident!
Rahul hunched over his workstation in the dimly lit call center floor in Andheri East, Mumbai. The night shift had just begun—7:30 PM to 4:30 AM, the usual US process grind. Headset clamped on, he murmured scripted apologies into the phone for the hundredth time that hour, voice mechanical, eyes glazed from the blue glow of the screen. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead; the air smelled of instant coffee and recycled AC.
A notification pinged on his desk phone: Reception – Visitor for Rahul at front desk.
He frowned, removed the headset mid-call (muttering "one moment" to the irate customer), and walked the long corridor to the lobby. He was not sure who had came to visit him, in decades no one asked for him at the reception..
Surprise hit him like a slap—Sam stood there, wiry as ever, salt-streaked hair but he was modern and young compared to him.. Silver toothed grin flashing under the harsh lights. The same Sam who’d ridden shotgun on that dusty backroad ten years ago, who’d tossed him the helmet the day they eloped, who’d stood witness under the banyan tree as Rahul tied the mangalsutra around Anandhi’s neck.
“Long time, brother,” Sam said, pulling him into a rough hug. Rahul’s tired face cracked into a genuine smile—the first real one in weeks.
“You came all this way? From the town?” Rahul asked, voice thick with unexpected warmth. “What’s the occasion?”
Sam’s grin faded a little. “Need to talk. Face to face. It’s… important. Can we go somewhere quiet? A pub, maybe? I’ll buy the first round.”
Rahul hesitated, doubt flickering. “Shift ends at 4:30, but… I can take an early break. Manager owes me. Okay.”
They left the office together, he took his bike - the old pulsar which needed a proper maintenance like him. he took him to a nearby rooftop pub in Andheri—Mirage or one like it, with open-air seating overlooking the hazy city lights and a distant glimpse of the sea link glowing in the night.
The place wasn’t fancy: string lights swaying, low music thumping, air thick with cigarette smoke and the metallic promise of rain.
They claimed a corner table near the edge, back to the railing, the skyline a blurred smear of neon behind him. Beers arrived first—cold Kingfisher bottles sweating on the table. They clinked silently at first, small talk about old friends, the town, Riya and Rohan’s latest antics. Rahul relaxed a fraction, the alcohol loosening the knot in his chest.
Then Sam’s fingers started twitching on the bottle. He stared at the label too long. “I don’t have the guts for this straight,” he finally said, voice low. “That’s why I came all this way. And why we’re here, not your flat.”
Rahul’s smile slipped. “What’s wrong, da? Just say it.”
Sam pulled out his phone, thumb hovering. “Video. Evidence. I… someone sent it to me. From the town. I had to show you myself.”
Rahul leaned in, confused. “Evidence? Of what?”
Sam didn’t answer. He just tapped play and slid the phone across the table. Its about Anandhi, he said and stood up like leaving......
What Anandhi?
What it could be?
Rahul sits alone now—Sam had stepped away to the restroom for a moment, giving him space. His hands tremble as he grips the phone, knuckles white, thumbs hovering over the play button like they're afraid to commit. He could not explain but he felt something really wrong..
His hands tremble badly now — not just from the whiskey he’s been knocking back, but from something deeper, something fracturing. The phone rests on the table like a live gren ade. He stares at the thumbnail: grainy, frozen on a hotel bedroom door cracked open just enough to hint at disaster. What's about Anandhi.. no way..
But he fears the worst, he decided to see whatever it comes? his mind first thinkan affair, then he consoles himself no way,, she wont do that... ..no stop it Rahul, why you are thinking for worse.. may be she is getting some award, or if that is a worse case it could be she is in hospital for treatment.. no way she is in affair or anything..
He taps.
The video loads in agonizing slow motion, pixels stuttering into focus. Tinny sound leaks from the speaker: soft, rhythmic moans, bedsprings protesting, a low male voice murmuring words too muffled to catch. Then her face fills the frame.
Anandhi.
His Anandhi.
Flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Her body arches ,familiar curves he once worshipped ,now rising to meet another man’s thrusts. Her hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in the way they used to dig into Rahul’s back. Her legs wrap tight around the shadowed figure, pulling him deeper. Intimate. Willing. Lost in it.
Rahul’s breath seizes in his chest. Everything stops,heart, lungs, thought. The world collapses to the tiny glowing screen.
Nausea hits first: hot, sour, surging up his throat like acid. His stomach clenches violently, as if punched from the inside. He swallows hard, but it only makes the burn worse. Then rage crashes in — pure, white-hot, drowning everything else. Hotter than the whiskey still coating his tongue. His vision tunnels; the rooftop lights smear into angry red streaks.
He replays it. Once. Twice. Zooming in on her face, desperate for something — hesitation, coercion, anything to say this isn’t real. Nothing. Just pleasure. Her lips parted in a gasp he knows too well. The way her hips roll up to meet him.
“You bitch…” The words slip out low, cracked, barely audible over the pub’s distant bass. But they taste like blood in his mouth. “You’re cheating on me?!”
The shout rips free — raw, guttural, echoing off the railing and into the night. Heads turn from nearby tables; someone mutters “drunk bastard.” He doesn’t care. His fist slams the table — hard enough that the empty glass topples, rolling, shattering somewhere far below on the street.
Tears sting hot behind his eyes, but he blinks them back furiously. Rage won’t let them fall yet. Instead, humiliation floods in next — thick, suffocating. All those years: call-center nights bleeding into dawn, every rupee wired home, every skipped call because he was “too tired,” every fantasy of coming back to her arms. Wasted. She was supposed to be waiting. Loyal. His. Instead, she’s giving herself to someone else while he rots in this city.
He replays again. Her moan hits him like a slap. His free hand claws at his shirt, as if he can tear the pain out of his chest. Memories collide: her quiet laugh in their old flat, the way she’d press against him after the kids slept, whispering “soon, we’ll be together again.” Lies. Every tender moment now poisoned.
Something inside him snaps — not clean, but jagged. The phone slips from his shaking fingers, clattering face-down. He stares at it, breathing ragged, chest heaving like he’s run miles. The rage coils tighter, mixing with grief, self-loathing, disbelief.
He stands abruptly — chair scbanging loud against concrete. The rooftop tilts from the booze, but fury steadies his legs. He pockets the phone like a weapon he’ll need later.
“You bitch,” he mutters again, voice breaking on the word. Louder this time. “You fucking cheated on me.”
The booze from earlier surges back up — bitter, burning. He swallows it down, but it only fuels the fire. His mind races through memories: her smile in that faded photo, the way she used to trace his jaw with her fingers, whispering "we'll get through this." Lies. All of it lies.
"Cheating bitch," he mutters again, louder this time, voice cracking on the last word.
Sam returns just then, sees Rahul standing, face twisted. “Rahul… you okay?”
Rahul’s eyes are wild. “She’s been fucking around. Happily. While I… while I…” Words fail him.
Sam grips his shoulder hard. “Throw her out. Teach her a lesson. She doesn’t deserve you. All these years, you grinding here, sending every rupee, sacrificing your health—while she does this. Don’t let her walk over you anymore.”
Rahul’s mind spun. His entire youth, wasted. The elopement, the fury of families, the tin-roof shack, Riya’s first cry, Rohan’s tiny fists, 20 lakhs of debt, double shifts, lonely nights stroking to old memories of her body. All for loyalty. All for her. And she’d been moaning for others—happily, eagerly—while he rotted.
“I wont leave them, Anandhi and that person who she is having sex.. i will beat them, i need a revenge,” he muttered, voice raw. “Or… end it. Everything.”
Sam’s face tightened. “Don’t do anything stupid tonight. Think. Sleep on it. Call me whenever. You’re not alone, brother. I have a plan and i will tell you what to do.”
Sam left soon after, consoling words trailing, heading to crash at a friend’s place in the city.
Rahul sat alone a while longer, staring at the frozen thumbnail on the phone. The rooftop spun a little from the beers. String lights swayed overhead; broken bottle glass from earlier glinted far below on the street like shattered pieces of trust.
Two hours later—around 11 PM—he couldn’t sit still. The video looped in his head: her moans, her surrender, her pleasure. He pocketed the phone like burning evidence, stood unsteadily, and headed for the stairs.
Outside, the Mumbai night was thick and humid, heavy with the promise of rain that never quite arrived. His old Pulsar waited chained to a rusted pole under a flickering streetlamp, the same battered bike that had carried him through countless double-shift commutes. Fingers—still trembling from whiskey and rage—fumbled the padlock. It clicked open on the fourth try. He swung a leg over, kicked the starter.
The engine caught on the third stubborn kick, roaring to life with a throaty snarl that matched the one tearing through his chest.
He twisted the throttle hard.
Eighty. Ninety. A hundred kmph. Streetlights smeared into glowing, liquid streaks. Sea wind whipped off the Arabian Sea, stinging his eyes, tearing at his open shirt, plastering damp fabric to his bloated gut. He wove drunkenly through late-night traffic—rickshaws honking furiously in protest, a red BEST bus swerving with a blare of its horn, a delivery boy on a scooter shouting Marathi abuse he didn’t register.
Inside his skull the video looped without mercy, relentless, high-definition in memory: Anandhi’s legs spread wide on their own bed, saree bunched cruelly at her waist, hips rising eagerly to meet the shadowed thrust in missionary. Then her head turning, long black hair splayed like spilled ink across the pillow, mouth opening hungrily to take the second man deep, cheeks hollowing as she sucked, eyes fluttering shut in raw pleasure. Moans—sharp, jagged, ecstatic—ringing through the tinny speaker again and again, each one a fresh stab.
Her pleasure. Her betrayal. Her happiness while he decayed in this city.
Tears blurred the road into watercolor streaks. He didn’t wipe them. Didn’t slow down.
The bike hit a slick patch—oil from a leaking truck, or the first spitting rain of the night. Tires lost grip with a sickening screech. Metal howled against asphalt. The world tilted violently sideways.
Rahul flew.
Time stretched thin and cruel. He saw the low concrete retaining wall rushing up, the narrow strip of dirty sand beyond it, the dark water of the creek glittering under sodium lights like broken glass.
But he didn’t clear the wall.
The bike slammed into the barrier at an angle. The front wheel buckled instantly; the frame crumpled like foil. Momentum hurled Rahul forward and upward—body separated from machine in a brutal ejection. He sailed through the air for one endless second, arms flailing uselessly, the night spinning around him.
He crashed down onto the roof of a parked black sedan on the other side of the wall.
The impact was catastrophic.
His chest and head smashed against the curved metal roof with bone-shattering force. The windshield spiderwebbed instantly under the weight of his shoulder. A dull crunch echoed—his ribs giving way, skull ringing like a struck bell. Pain detonated white-hot everywhere at once: ribs, collarbone, the side of his face splitting open against the edge of the roof.
As his body slid sideways and crumpled onto the hood, his eyes—wide, unfocused—filled one last time with the image burned deepest into his mind:
Anandhi, back arched in ecstasy, hands shoving hard against the man’s chest—not to push him away, but to pull him deeper, forcing his cock further inside her with desperate, greedy strength. Her thighs trembled around him, hips grinding in frantic circles, mouth open in a silent scream of release as she took every inch, claiming her pleasure without shame.
The vision held for a fractured heartbeat—her eyes half-lidded, lips parted, utterly lost in it—then shattered.
Rahul rolled off the crumpled hood and hit the wet asphalt hard. Breath punched out of him in a wet gasp. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and thick. The bike lay twisted twenty feet away, front wheel still spinning lazily, engine ticking as it died.
He lay there on his back, staring up at the indifferent Mumbai sky—low clouds, sodium-orange glow, the first real raindrops beginning to fall and mix with the blood on his face. He wanted a revenge, he wanted to teach them lesson, but his body is not moving, his eyes are not moving... A tear came out, is this what i deserve after years of my sincerity love and sacrifice to the family?... How could you Anandhi... More than physically, the emotional pain pulled him back ...
“This is it,” he thought dimly, the words floating in a sea of pain.
The video image flickered once more, weaker now: Anandhi pushing, taking, moaning—then gone.
Sea wind carried the distant murmur of waves from the creek. Rain pattered softly on the wrecked sedan, on his broken body, on the scattered shards of his old life.
Darkness drap-ed him like a heavy, merciful cloak at last. His eyes closed slowly...
Rahul lay unconscious on the road edge, his eyes closed...
Rahul hunched over his workstation in the dimly lit call center floor in Andheri East, Mumbai. The night shift had just begun—7:30 PM to 4:30 AM, the usual US process grind. Headset clamped on, he murmured scripted apologies into the phone for the hundredth time that hour, voice mechanical, eyes glazed from the blue glow of the screen. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead; the air smelled of instant coffee and recycled AC.
A notification pinged on his desk phone: Reception – Visitor for Rahul at front desk.
He frowned, removed the headset mid-call (muttering "one moment" to the irate customer), and walked the long corridor to the lobby. He was not sure who had came to visit him, in decades no one asked for him at the reception..
Surprise hit him like a slap—Sam stood there, wiry as ever, salt-streaked hair but he was modern and young compared to him.. Silver toothed grin flashing under the harsh lights. The same Sam who’d ridden shotgun on that dusty backroad ten years ago, who’d tossed him the helmet the day they eloped, who’d stood witness under the banyan tree as Rahul tied the mangalsutra around Anandhi’s neck.
“Long time, brother,” Sam said, pulling him into a rough hug. Rahul’s tired face cracked into a genuine smile—the first real one in weeks.
“You came all this way? From the town?” Rahul asked, voice thick with unexpected warmth. “What’s the occasion?”
Sam’s grin faded a little. “Need to talk. Face to face. It’s… important. Can we go somewhere quiet? A pub, maybe? I’ll buy the first round.”
Rahul hesitated, doubt flickering. “Shift ends at 4:30, but… I can take an early break. Manager owes me. Okay.”
They left the office together, he took his bike - the old pulsar which needed a proper maintenance like him. he took him to a nearby rooftop pub in Andheri—Mirage or one like it, with open-air seating overlooking the hazy city lights and a distant glimpse of the sea link glowing in the night.
The place wasn’t fancy: string lights swaying, low music thumping, air thick with cigarette smoke and the metallic promise of rain.
They claimed a corner table near the edge, back to the railing, the skyline a blurred smear of neon behind him. Beers arrived first—cold Kingfisher bottles sweating on the table. They clinked silently at first, small talk about old friends, the town, Riya and Rohan’s latest antics. Rahul relaxed a fraction, the alcohol loosening the knot in his chest.
Then Sam’s fingers started twitching on the bottle. He stared at the label too long. “I don’t have the guts for this straight,” he finally said, voice low. “That’s why I came all this way. And why we’re here, not your flat.”
Rahul’s smile slipped. “What’s wrong, da? Just say it.”
Sam pulled out his phone, thumb hovering. “Video. Evidence. I… someone sent it to me. From the town. I had to show you myself.”
Rahul leaned in, confused. “Evidence? Of what?”
Sam didn’t answer. He just tapped play and slid the phone across the table. Its about Anandhi, he said and stood up like leaving......
What Anandhi?
What it could be?
Rahul sits alone now—Sam had stepped away to the restroom for a moment, giving him space. His hands tremble as he grips the phone, knuckles white, thumbs hovering over the play button like they're afraid to commit. He could not explain but he felt something really wrong..
His hands tremble badly now — not just from the whiskey he’s been knocking back, but from something deeper, something fracturing. The phone rests on the table like a live gren ade. He stares at the thumbnail: grainy, frozen on a hotel bedroom door cracked open just enough to hint at disaster. What's about Anandhi.. no way..
But he fears the worst, he decided to see whatever it comes? his mind first thinkan affair, then he consoles himself no way,, she wont do that... ..no stop it Rahul, why you are thinking for worse.. may be she is getting some award, or if that is a worse case it could be she is in hospital for treatment.. no way she is in affair or anything..
He taps.
The video loads in agonizing slow motion, pixels stuttering into focus. Tinny sound leaks from the speaker: soft, rhythmic moans, bedsprings protesting, a low male voice murmuring words too muffled to catch. Then her face fills the frame.
Anandhi.
His Anandhi.
Flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Her body arches ,familiar curves he once worshipped ,now rising to meet another man’s thrusts. Her hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in the way they used to dig into Rahul’s back. Her legs wrap tight around the shadowed figure, pulling him deeper. Intimate. Willing. Lost in it.
Rahul’s breath seizes in his chest. Everything stops,heart, lungs, thought. The world collapses to the tiny glowing screen.
Nausea hits first: hot, sour, surging up his throat like acid. His stomach clenches violently, as if punched from the inside. He swallows hard, but it only makes the burn worse. Then rage crashes in — pure, white-hot, drowning everything else. Hotter than the whiskey still coating his tongue. His vision tunnels; the rooftop lights smear into angry red streaks.
He replays it. Once. Twice. Zooming in on her face, desperate for something — hesitation, coercion, anything to say this isn’t real. Nothing. Just pleasure. Her lips parted in a gasp he knows too well. The way her hips roll up to meet him.
“You bitch…” The words slip out low, cracked, barely audible over the pub’s distant bass. But they taste like blood in his mouth. “You’re cheating on me?!”
The shout rips free — raw, guttural, echoing off the railing and into the night. Heads turn from nearby tables; someone mutters “drunk bastard.” He doesn’t care. His fist slams the table — hard enough that the empty glass topples, rolling, shattering somewhere far below on the street.
Tears sting hot behind his eyes, but he blinks them back furiously. Rage won’t let them fall yet. Instead, humiliation floods in next — thick, suffocating. All those years: call-center nights bleeding into dawn, every rupee wired home, every skipped call because he was “too tired,” every fantasy of coming back to her arms. Wasted. She was supposed to be waiting. Loyal. His. Instead, she’s giving herself to someone else while he rots in this city.
He replays again. Her moan hits him like a slap. His free hand claws at his shirt, as if he can tear the pain out of his chest. Memories collide: her quiet laugh in their old flat, the way she’d press against him after the kids slept, whispering “soon, we’ll be together again.” Lies. Every tender moment now poisoned.
Something inside him snaps — not clean, but jagged. The phone slips from his shaking fingers, clattering face-down. He stares at it, breathing ragged, chest heaving like he’s run miles. The rage coils tighter, mixing with grief, self-loathing, disbelief.
He stands abruptly — chair scbanging loud against concrete. The rooftop tilts from the booze, but fury steadies his legs. He pockets the phone like a weapon he’ll need later.
“You bitch,” he mutters again, voice breaking on the word. Louder this time. “You fucking cheated on me.”
The booze from earlier surges back up — bitter, burning. He swallows it down, but it only fuels the fire. His mind races through memories: her smile in that faded photo, the way she used to trace his jaw with her fingers, whispering "we'll get through this." Lies. All of it lies.
"Cheating bitch," he mutters again, louder this time, voice cracking on the last word.
Sam returns just then, sees Rahul standing, face twisted. “Rahul… you okay?”
Rahul’s eyes are wild. “She’s been fucking around. Happily. While I… while I…” Words fail him.
Sam grips his shoulder hard. “Throw her out. Teach her a lesson. She doesn’t deserve you. All these years, you grinding here, sending every rupee, sacrificing your health—while she does this. Don’t let her walk over you anymore.”
Rahul’s mind spun. His entire youth, wasted. The elopement, the fury of families, the tin-roof shack, Riya’s first cry, Rohan’s tiny fists, 20 lakhs of debt, double shifts, lonely nights stroking to old memories of her body. All for loyalty. All for her. And she’d been moaning for others—happily, eagerly—while he rotted.
“I wont leave them, Anandhi and that person who she is having sex.. i will beat them, i need a revenge,” he muttered, voice raw. “Or… end it. Everything.”
Sam’s face tightened. “Don’t do anything stupid tonight. Think. Sleep on it. Call me whenever. You’re not alone, brother. I have a plan and i will tell you what to do.”
Sam left soon after, consoling words trailing, heading to crash at a friend’s place in the city.
Rahul sat alone a while longer, staring at the frozen thumbnail on the phone. The rooftop spun a little from the beers. String lights swayed overhead; broken bottle glass from earlier glinted far below on the street like shattered pieces of trust.
Two hours later—around 11 PM—he couldn’t sit still. The video looped in his head: her moans, her surrender, her pleasure. He pocketed the phone like burning evidence, stood unsteadily, and headed for the stairs.
Outside, the Mumbai night was thick and humid, heavy with the promise of rain that never quite arrived. His old Pulsar waited chained to a rusted pole under a flickering streetlamp, the same battered bike that had carried him through countless double-shift commutes. Fingers—still trembling from whiskey and rage—fumbled the padlock. It clicked open on the fourth try. He swung a leg over, kicked the starter.
The engine caught on the third stubborn kick, roaring to life with a throaty snarl that matched the one tearing through his chest.
He twisted the throttle hard.
Eighty. Ninety. A hundred kmph. Streetlights smeared into glowing, liquid streaks. Sea wind whipped off the Arabian Sea, stinging his eyes, tearing at his open shirt, plastering damp fabric to his bloated gut. He wove drunkenly through late-night traffic—rickshaws honking furiously in protest, a red BEST bus swerving with a blare of its horn, a delivery boy on a scooter shouting Marathi abuse he didn’t register.
Inside his skull the video looped without mercy, relentless, high-definition in memory: Anandhi’s legs spread wide on their own bed, saree bunched cruelly at her waist, hips rising eagerly to meet the shadowed thrust in missionary. Then her head turning, long black hair splayed like spilled ink across the pillow, mouth opening hungrily to take the second man deep, cheeks hollowing as she sucked, eyes fluttering shut in raw pleasure. Moans—sharp, jagged, ecstatic—ringing through the tinny speaker again and again, each one a fresh stab.
Her pleasure. Her betrayal. Her happiness while he decayed in this city.
Tears blurred the road into watercolor streaks. He didn’t wipe them. Didn’t slow down.
The bike hit a slick patch—oil from a leaking truck, or the first spitting rain of the night. Tires lost grip with a sickening screech. Metal howled against asphalt. The world tilted violently sideways.
Rahul flew.
Time stretched thin and cruel. He saw the low concrete retaining wall rushing up, the narrow strip of dirty sand beyond it, the dark water of the creek glittering under sodium lights like broken glass.
But he didn’t clear the wall.
The bike slammed into the barrier at an angle. The front wheel buckled instantly; the frame crumpled like foil. Momentum hurled Rahul forward and upward—body separated from machine in a brutal ejection. He sailed through the air for one endless second, arms flailing uselessly, the night spinning around him.
He crashed down onto the roof of a parked black sedan on the other side of the wall.
The impact was catastrophic.
His chest and head smashed against the curved metal roof with bone-shattering force. The windshield spiderwebbed instantly under the weight of his shoulder. A dull crunch echoed—his ribs giving way, skull ringing like a struck bell. Pain detonated white-hot everywhere at once: ribs, collarbone, the side of his face splitting open against the edge of the roof.
As his body slid sideways and crumpled onto the hood, his eyes—wide, unfocused—filled one last time with the image burned deepest into his mind:
Anandhi, back arched in ecstasy, hands shoving hard against the man’s chest—not to push him away, but to pull him deeper, forcing his cock further inside her with desperate, greedy strength. Her thighs trembled around him, hips grinding in frantic circles, mouth open in a silent scream of release as she took every inch, claiming her pleasure without shame.
The vision held for a fractured heartbeat—her eyes half-lidded, lips parted, utterly lost in it—then shattered.
Rahul rolled off the crumpled hood and hit the wet asphalt hard. Breath punched out of him in a wet gasp. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and thick. The bike lay twisted twenty feet away, front wheel still spinning lazily, engine ticking as it died.
He lay there on his back, staring up at the indifferent Mumbai sky—low clouds, sodium-orange glow, the first real raindrops beginning to fall and mix with the blood on his face. He wanted a revenge, he wanted to teach them lesson, but his body is not moving, his eyes are not moving... A tear came out, is this what i deserve after years of my sincerity love and sacrifice to the family?... How could you Anandhi... More than physically, the emotional pain pulled him back ...
“This is it,” he thought dimly, the words floating in a sea of pain.
The video image flickered once more, weaker now: Anandhi pushing, taking, moaning—then gone.
Sea wind carried the distant murmur of waves from the creek. Rain pattered softly on the wrecked sedan, on his broken body, on the scattered shards of his old life.
Darkness drap-ed him like a heavy, merciful cloak at last. His eyes closed slowly...
Rahul lay unconscious on the road edge, his eyes closed...
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