The old man that was standing beside the entrance held the door open for us and stared lewdly at the girl’s legs. “That poor knee of yours again,...uh?” he asked. “No, the hardware works fine,” she answered as I brushed past him. As we entered the lift, I felt something strange. She suddenly got limp, and her arms dropped. Her body started to feel heavier than before. I looked anxiously at her face. Her right eye was glazed, gazing through me at some point far away from this world. I stiffened. They aren’t red satin thongs or crotchless and leopard printed. Those aren’t fit for her anyway, they wouldn’t match her. The thing I know about Mrs. V that appeals to me is that I don’t know much about her. I know her exteriors, I know her friendly social housewife persona. But that’s a classification she molded herself into and will preserve, right down to the underwear she chooses for herself. I hold them in my hand – white Jockeys, the occasional black or gray. Classic, rounded, reserved. More

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