Seconds passed outside the bathroom door. Then fortified by the image of his big, erect penis, I placed my hand gently on the door handle and turned i... quietly. The door thankfully wasn't locked, and I opened noiselessly. I stepped into the hot, steamy air of the bathroom and pushed the door closed as quietly as I had opened it, easing the latch softly into place. I could see my b*o through the frosted glass of the shower stall and could hear him humming softly some indeterminate tune. I looked. Maybe she did. But I think those two beautiful women she tells about were the Ship and Little One. I don't think those women were just a product of an oxygen-starved brain as it was dying."Hope's problem is the intensity of her memories from that night. At least, that's what I understand from what she tells me. The sight of Art triggers those memories and they become almost real in their impact. What if the intensity were less, hmmm? Generally, when something bad happens to us, the memory of it. More

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