The creaking wheels don’t carry it far. I follow it, walking away from her. ‘You’re still mad.’ It’s not a question, more of an accusation. Her tone is incredulous. I walk faster. ‘I’m not mad.’ She follows me as I wheel the cart back toward the supply room. There are more books to be reshelved, standing in piles on the oak table. There are even more stacks of books waiting for rebinding, or page repairs. ‘I said I was sorry.’ She had said she was sorry. A dozen times. Two dozen. It didn’t change anything. ‘I’m not mad.’ I fuss with the cart, maneuvering it into the corner, a momentary bout of OCD forcing me to perfectly align the wheels with the chipped paint of the baseboard. I’m not mad. I’m furious. ‘You won’t even look at me.’ I haven’t looked at her. Defiant, I do now. She’s got that kicked puppy look that I hate. Mousy brown hair pulled into a messy topknot, her eyes red-rimmed from tears she won’t ever let me see fall. ‘You read too much into looks.’ My tone is colder than I. She'd say whatever sheneeded to say, pretend to be whatever he wanted. Anything andeverything to push his buttons, to get him on top of, and inside her.If her boobs left any doubt in the viewers mind, the in-out motion, thedesperate thrusts of the sex-toy that reamed her ever-moistening cuntwould provoke a surge of primal, male urges that would make Todd forgethis earlier refusal. Noisome howls of pleasure would ensure that nopassersby would miss the indecent spectacle of sweat-slickednymphomania thrashing nakedly in frenzied estrus in Room 221."Knock, Knock." Announced the landlord, as he rapped briefly upon theopen door."Guh-huh?" murmured Denise, her mahogany-colored hair becoming mattedto her bronzed skin is wet strands."Ah've never been one ta abandon a woman in need," explained the ownerof the complex, Paul Nesmith. An aging newly retiree, he'd nonethelessalways attempted to remain in decent physical condition. His weatheredflesh still retained a healthy strength, and beneath.
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