She dramatically tossed her clothes, one item at a time, out the
bathroom door, through the clouds of steam, and he caught a glimpse of
her round, full ass, bracketed by her restless wings, as she poured into
the tub the bottle of cheap bubble-bath she'd bought in the lobby.
He dug a T-shirt and a fresh pair of boxers to sleep in out of his
suitcase, feeling ridiculously modest as he donned them. His feet
crunched over cigarette burns and tangles in the brown shag carpet and
he wished he'd brought along some slippers. He flipped through both
snowy TV channels and decided that he couldn't stomach a televangelist
or a thirty-year-old sitcom right then and flicked it off, sitting on
the edge of the bed, listening to the splashing from the bathroom.
Mimi was in awfully good spirits, considering what she'd been through
with Krishna. He tried to think about it, trying to make sense of the
day and the girl, but the splashing from the tub kept intruding on his
thoughts.
She began to sing, and after a second he recognized the tune. "White
Rabbit," by the Jefferson Airplane. Not the kind of thing he'd expect
her to be giving voice to; nor she, apparently, for she kept breaking
off to giggle. Finally, he poked his head through the door.
She was folded into the tub, knees and tits above the foamline, wings
slick with water and dripping in the tile.
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