The piano player reminded me of her going through emotionless blow jobs with her disinterested musical rendition of a song best left forgotten. They could have been twin sisters in personality if not in looks.I approached the piano cautiously and dropped a five dollar bill into the glass more out of pity for her servitude, than appreciation for the memory evoked by the tune she was playing.When she looked up at me with that thousand mile stare without really seeing me at all, I studied her face. It was lacy. Tristian stood up and said he was going to bed. We wished him goodnight.I was at once relieved and scared. With him there we had only so far to go, now how far would it go? We didn't speak. We just sat almost frozen. She looked up, nervously into my eyes. She smiled and licked her lips as she often did. Her pink tongue excited me. She reached down and undid the button of my jeans. She slipped her hand over mine. Then passed it. She got a hold of my zipper and began to pull it down.. . sexy. She did, in fact, fold her dress and place it gently on the blanket. Then, with a little gnaw of trepidation tightening her gut, she stood and turned to face Bob. His shirt was open, but that was as far as he’d gotten. All his attention had been on her when she started taking her dress off.There was just enough daylight left to see her clearly.“That doesn’t look like panty hose and a girdle,” he said, staring at the pale lavender lace that adorned her body. The bra swooped low, exposing. "She glared at me. "Don't jest, monsieur!" I mean it," I insisted with moral empathy, for I understood that she'd be upset having lost both of her parents. "I said that I'm sorry, and I am." But don't you realize who mother is? Even now?"I shook my head."Monsieur," she said. "I may be the daughter of the Marquis de Lyons, but my mother was his wife. She was Isabelle Douviere."Time stood still. "His wife?"I felt the spiders scurrying towards the cracks and searching for cover. There was no past.
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