She pulled out several and began to wipe herself.“Oh!” she gasped, “I am tender.”She resorted to blotting more than wiping. I took a few wipes, and cleaned myself up, disposing of the used condom. I absently noted some flecks of blood. Belatedly, I removed the headset and stopped the recording. I glanced at a clock. I thought it should have been evening already, but it was just before noon.I gathered up our clothes, handing her the shirt and shorts she'd worn and pulling on my own pants, the rest I rolled into a tight bundle.“Come on, there's a bidet in the upstairs bath.”I told her.Upstairs, she went into the bath and I turned toward Mother and Father's room. I recalled a track suit my mother had bought in a moment of extreme optimism but had never managed to fit into. A brief rummage in the closet and I returned to the bath. I knocked softly and opened the door.“Put this on and we'll run things in the washer.” I said.I got out a washcloth and towel for her, setting them on. She was thinking about Sam, and must have been distracted because she slammed headlong into something tall and pissed off. ‘Bloody Hell!!’ roared a stranger’s voice. Miranda cried out and fell to the ground, all of her possessions crashing next to her. She gasped in pain as jolts of agony shot through her arm, which had been the point of impact. Blinking back tears, she looked up at whom she had run into. He was Caucasian, maybe early forties but ragged-looking. He was dressed in a shirt, tie and tan duster that all looked thoroughly disheveled to the point of messy. His hair was the color of dirty straw cut short and spiky, like a punk rocker who’d kept the haircut long past its time and he looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in days. A pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses covered his eyes. Overall, Miranda though he looked like a cross between a used-car dealer and a heroin addict. He was currently dusting himself off and reaching down to pick-up a matchbook and a now-crushed cigarette.
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