## She went first to the laundry room, where Bozo tried to make love to her ankles. She threw one of his nasty rubber bones into a corner to get him off her, and proceeded to heave the wet clothes from the enormous washer into the equally cavernous dryer. She threw in the exact right amounts of detergent and fabric softener, and set the dials on exactly the right settings. The basket of already clean clothes was overflowing, so she picked it up and carried it through the spacious kitchen, dining room, open sitting room, and back hallway to the master bedroom, where there was never anyone around when Gwen was here, but where she could always smell and sense the recent nearness of the rich girl’s parents. It was almost too personal, and smelled like cologne, skin, and sleep. She sat on the firm, memory-foam edge of the king-sized bed, and started folding laundry. There was a lot of underwear in this load. His were wide, drab—boxers, exclusively. She tried on the idea of picturing them next to his crotch, his penis, his ass, but it didn’t fit. There was something missing from it, a sweetness, the image was too coarse, too meaty, and it neither repulsed nor stirred up any hunger in her. She folded the tent-like cotton rectangle of it, and laid it on the pile. Next she picked out of the basket a pair belonging to the rich girl—her finger traced the sailing-ship curves of the monogrammed “M,” feeling the contrast of the raised letter against the frictionless satin of the panties. Slowly, she lifted them to her face, pressed them against her mouth and nose and cheek, feeling the coolness, inhaling the perfect clean laundry smell, and yet, irresistably, reluctantly, beginning to imagine— %% of course eventually she’s going to want dirty ones *Boo!* Gwen started so hard her heart was in her throat, bulging like a frog’s air bladder. Mary was grinning at her from the doorway to the hallway. I was— Gwen couldn’t even remotely begin to think of any way to finish that sentence, as she dropped Mary’s underwear back into the basket at her feet. Mary didn’t seem to care—or notice? As Gwen’s pulse raged in her own ears, Mary hung onto the door jamb and swung into the room. Come on. I’ve got something to show you. I’m. But I’m supposed— I have to— Whatever. It can wait. My mom doesn’t care. She’d pay you even if you didn’t do a damn bit of work around here. She *likes* you. Mary tossed her jet-black waves and exited the room. Gwen glanced back at the laundry once, and followed. On their way through the kitchen, Mary grabbed a double handful of miniature egg rolls off a heavy-duty baking sheet sitting on the range top. As she led the way up the wide, carpeted stairs, Gwen watched her thin, strong calves flex under black leggings, and the lean high arches of her bare feet. Mary’s room was at the end of the hall, towards the back of the house.