By Leslie Lindsay Here we are at edge of Slippery Slope.  Our female protagonist is breaking into her first love’s home with his wife.  Oh…don’t do it!!  [original fiction.  Copying or reproducing is strictly prohibited].     “Steve?” I call out, my voice timid, unsure.         No answer.        “Hello?  Anyone home?”  The lights are on, the television blares, the puppy…he’s got to be here.         Numbers bloat out of my Steve?” I call out timidly, my voice squeaking. head, like pop-ups on a computer screen.  An orange eight.  Sixteen.  An aqua-blue twenty-four dances in front of me.  His address.         I stiffen as I glance around the house, removing my gloves.  I should leave.  This is wrong.  I wipe my hands down my pants.  Wetness develops under my arms.  I breathe out and try again, “Steve?  Are you here?   It’s me…Annie.”         The puppy barks.  A sharp squeak.   He leads me to the stairs.  I twist my head to the dining room as I pass by, noting the color on the wall.  Buttered yellow.  I …