Murray, a poet born in 1938, had gone to University of Sydney. He's been declared an Australian "national treasure."My mobile rang. It was Rachel. "I'm going to hear a visiting poet read. You'll want to get here to hear him, too." Who is it?" Angus Sinclair from Wollongong." Really? I haven't seen him in – oh – 15 years." That's why I'm calling. I'll meet you in 20 minutes at the Cultural Centre, okay?" Right. I'll put on clean clothes."Oh my, I thought. Angus Sinclair. Martha's Angus. [see "Aftermath"] Still at Wollongong. I got into a pair of chinos and a clean shirt and walked over, considering how small the universe was.There were about two dozen in the audience. The three of us sat towards the rear of the room. A prof introduced Angus. Apparently he'd published a small book every five years. His hair and beard were still ginger, but visibly grey-white. He looked sad."Thank you. I'm glad to be here, and I glad to see you," he began. "I'm going to read a few poems and then pause. It was a standard routine he performed whenever there was a sleepover. Brittany became aware of it after the third sleepover and planned to use this routine to her advantage.Vince checked the ashtrays and then turned to leave. He paused long enough to run the beam of light over Brittany's body as she had not crawled into her sleeping bag like the others but was sleeping on top of it.It was an effort for her not to move as the circle of light moved down from her pretty face and rested on her generous tits encased in her tiny silken bra. It then trailed down her flat stomach to her tiny black panties before it moved on to her slender tanned legs.In the dim light Brittany could see that he was dressed in only boxers and her nipples hardened at the sight of him. His arms, legs and chest budged with muscles and his body was free of hair. As a competition level body builder he kept his body shaved and Brittany loved it as she hated hairy guys.She began to feel the heat and wetness build in.
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