Michelle delivers the mail to the newsroom. She is married, but she is sleeping with several guys. Her sexual urge and indiscriminate tastes rival a man's. I'm not in her league. I was buying stamps at the post office when I ran into her leaving her job. She mentioned that her husband, a salesman, was on the road and that she was going for a drink if I were interested. I said I had a bottle of wine at my apartment if she were interested. After a glass we were fucking. She bit my balls, pinched my thighs, buried her nails into my back and twisted my nipples 360 degrees. I wanted to hit her in self-defense. Her pussy sounded like a bathtub emptying when I subdued her enough to fuck her. I can never resist her, but I'm relieved when she leaves. I open the French doors of the hotel room and stand on the balcony overlooking a busy street. The southeastern blows. I smoke a joint. Estanislao told me that his father, in the throes of terminal cancer, would retire to his condo at the Island, open the doors with a view of the Gulf, hook himself to his music and gaze beyond the horizon. As he lay dying, Estanislao held him in his arms. And when he awoke, his father was dead.
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