It was nearly half past three as Vincent hopped on the bus. The afternoon commute would be less crowded than the morning, and it hadn't yet reached rush hour, so he would be afforded a coveted seat on the bus ride home.
At almost 6'5", Vincent towered over the passengers who got on ahead of him, as they all scanned from side to side for available seats. He initially eyed a potential spot next to an attractive girl who looked like a fellow university student. His eyes lit up.
However, he'd have to ask her to move her backpack out of the seat.
Suddenly, doubt seized him. What if she put the bag there on purpose, to signal she wanted to sit alone?
Vincent quickly began rationalizing. He didn't want to put anyone on the spot.
After considering approaching the girl (with the motive of scoring a date), he ultimately backed out. Conscientious to the point of overkill, he cringed at the possibility of being seen as a lecherous fiend. God forbid he hit on a hot female, who from the looks of it, probably had a boyfriend anyway.
Vincent walked straight to the back of the bus to sit next to an old man reading a newspaper. "As usual, I'm a fucking chicken shit; no balls whatsoever. No wonder I can't get laid."
As the bus rolled along, and Vincent settled into his seat, he remarked that his classes had become pretty grueling lately, and that his professors' grading scales had been veering towards the impossible. He knew that if he wanted a good grade on his latest assignment, in particular, he'd have to spend considerable time researching the topic, as well as writing and revising his text.
Earlier at the beginning of the school year, Vincent vowed to make a focused effort to do well. So besides eating, sleeping, and showering, he'd have to spend every conscious hour studying. He wasn't like Colin, who could read a subject cold and understand all its nuances without effort. Similarly, Colin could write a formal piece with little or no preparation, and rarely did he need to edit or perfect his writing; the lucky bastard.
At the present at least, during the brief ride home, Vincent allowed himself the luxury to sit back and relax, if for no other reason than to stare off into space.
Instead of picturing waterfalls, rock formations, and other calm scenery, however, Vincent's mind quickly flooded with images of his enigmatic yet troubled housemate: Sally's small pale body engaged in hot steamy sex with her lover in an alley; used tissue, cotton balls, and swabs, thoroughly stained and bloody, all stuffed into the bathroom waste basket; white cotton panties lying on the floor next to a bed in a modest bedroom.
Actually, Vincent had been wondering about those white cotton panties lately, lying there all by their lonesome. Were they freshly washed and 'sanitized', or were they recently used and 'natural'? If they had already been worn, then for how many days, and were they sufficiently soiled? What did they smell like? Was there any trace of laundry detergent or fruity perfume on the underwear? Or did they carry Sally's pheromones, her pussy juice, her sweat, and even her urine?
Vincent thought an awful lot about Sally's underwear these days, so often that he even wondered whether she locked her bedroom door while showering down the hall.
The bus came to an abrupt stop and its heavy doors swooshed open, immediately snapping Vincent back to real life. This being his stop, he jumped up, grabbed his backpack, and hurried off.
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It was an especially quiet Sunday evening at Mrs. Perry's boarding house, as Sally grabbed hold of her basket and walked down two flights of stairs, all the way down to the basement. No one was washing, so she had the machines all to herself. First she separated her whites from her colors, and then loaded her clothes into two washers. She then poured the detergent in and pushed some buttons to start things off.
She would have a good 30 minutes to kill until it was time to dry, but at least she had her phone with her. "This would be a good time to look for a job. You need to get your shit together", she reminded herself.
Sally opened up her browser to continue the job hunt. Without realizing it, though, her mind started wandering. A frequent go-to was her unpleasant childhood.
At 24, however, Sally was starting to feel older and wiser. She reminded herself that she was no longer that sad little girl who felt inadequate every time she was compared to her over-achieving siblings.
She decided to turn over a new leaf, determined as ever to stop feeling sorry for herself.
Sally felt it was time to start putting her painful younger years in the past, and to leave them there for good. She would concentrate on moving forward with her relationship with BDSM, as he was her lover now.
That was when she began wondering, "Could she call him her boyfriend?"
Staring at the basement's water-stained ceiling and walls, as well as all the cleaning products up on the shelves, she concluded, "No, not quite a boyfriend yet, as she and BDSM did not go out on dates. Nor did he buy her presents. Nor did he phone her regularly to see how she was doing. No", Sally concluded. "He was merely her fucker."
In spite of her new resolve, Sally's thoughts reverted back to an experience from when she was in high school, before her parents' car accident.
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One of her father's business colleagues announced that his son, a brilliant university student, wanted to meet Sally.
"Someone wants to meet me?" asked an incredulous 17 year-old Sally, as she sat opposite her dad at the desk in his home office.
"That's what Mr. Johnson said", he confirmed, looking at her sympathetically, for he knew she had been disappointed when it came to boys and dating.
Sally couldn't believe someone actually wanted to meet her. All sorts of questions swarmed in her head, none of which she voiced aloud, "Why would a normal boy want to meet plain old me? He's in college, and I'm still in high school. He's probably got tons of pretty girls to choose from over there at the university. Plus, he hasn't even seen what I look like. Is Mr. Johnson even serious about this?"
Sally pondered for a few more seconds, "There's probably a reason he wants his kid to meet me, and judging from my unlucky track record, I should be suspicious about it. Maybe it's all a mean joke, at my expense of course." She was used to Trevor and Nathalie making fun of her looks and unpopularity with the boys, so why should this be any different?"
