She was at the other end of the hall in her bedroom among her Apple Blossom, Lily of the Valley, Lilac and Paris colognes that were all carefully displayed on a tray of gold leaf, lime-tinted glass mirror. One brassiere strap up, the other one hanging half-way over the back of the fan chair, her handmade garters tossed over that old chair she re-upholstered last spring. The Venetian blinds were all pulled down and closed tight. One nylon lying on the floor, the other one about ready to come off. She leaned forward and crossed her legs, fan-spread her little toes, running her little pinky up and down, between each toe with quick little smells in-between. At the bottom of the stairs the old man sat watching TV with his hands in his pockets, scratching away at his balls.
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