She panicked. She ran to the phone and dialed his cell. She had to stop him. She had to get him back. He couldn’t just leave her. She had to explain...— try to make him understand. The phone rang and finally she heard his voice. It was his voice mail. ‘Brent, it’s me. Please call. I need to explain. Please, Brent. You can’t leave me. Please talk to me and let me explain. You need to understand. It was just a job. Call me. I beg you. Call me.’ She set the phone back on its cradle and stood,. " You stammer, once again falling back on the old standby: nervous, unintelligible mumbling. This time, her smile becomes a grin and she gives you an amused look, although it was all sewn together with relief and adoration. "That's not what I meant to say...I mean, it is, but not that way...I wanted to tell you that...I think your pretty and cute and shit like that...I mean that I like you and...Arrrrrgh, I suck."You close your eyes and bury your face in your hands out of embarrassment. You. You are, in fact, Stanley Aitken, 22 year old carpenter and convicted murderer, although I expect this will come as a bit of a shock.' Kendal's eyes scrutinised the woman's reaction to this news. The florescent strip lighting flickered sympathetically, allowing the prisoner freedom to quickly flick her gaze to the floor unnoticed. 'What's... going on? What's happening to me?' The fear and confusion of her predicament was growing steadily. 'Relax, Stanley. One step. I was content to continue in my hectic life, learning a new art form but not creating any art. I hadn’t felt inspired since the night I painted Hope. I could convince myself that I was still working on art because I was learning something. It was a thin deception.Just as I’d accepted my violent racquetball practices as sport.Lissa joined me on the court Monday afternoon expecting to pick up where we’d left off, but I was way beyond that. She walked off the court after half an hour. I hardly.