She unlaced his pants and slid them down his hips, examining him as he stood before her naked. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. White. But he knew. “No, John, you won’t understand. Least of all myself. My Mom inherited our house from our Grandma, otherwise they never could have afforded it, not even twenty years ago. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place. "Right to a farthing.
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