.. I assume you know who they are since you've been getting foodstamps for the past month."Chris nodded her turbaned head."As landlord I was mailed this letter to ask a few questions about your living situation. According to this xeroxed form, Sandra... that's you," he blinked his chocolate eyes at the dark haired girl who cowered in the sofa, one leg hugged up to her chest, her dimpled chin resting on her knee,"... are supposed to be married to a Christopher O'Brien and supporting two children." He flung the letter to the side table and feigning a glare, thrust his hands in his pockets and resumed his pacing.Silence fell on the room, broken only by the dull crackle of a radio that hummed out Bob Dylan's "Dear Landlord... put a price on my soul." Sandy stifled an irresponsible giggle; it was almost funny in a desperate sort of way, but Chris' elbow in her ribs put a somber look back on her pixie face."So... what do we do about it?" Sandy pouted, sighed and tutted. "Okay," she said in. He held off on telling her that her body was normal—extraordinarily hot, really. He wanted more details. He just wanted to hear. He wouldn’t do anything more. “Yes. Sometimes, I wake up and it’s like that. I have to change my clothes. And it’ll happen throughout the day, at school, at practice, at night… I’m just not sure it’s normal.” “Is there anything in particular that you can think of that might precipitate these episodes?” He congratulated himself inwardly at his pun, and thought fleetingly if he could slip in any other innuendos. She hesitated. “I’m not sure.” So perhaps he wouldn’t be getting any details about what turned the buxom girl on. He tried another route. “Can you tell me if you feel any other symptoms, with the wetness?” She thought for a bit. “I feel hot. My heart… beats faster. I feel…” and she bit her lip again, her gaze broke from his. “How do you feel?” he prompted. When a beat of silence passed, his eyes drifted back down. He was going to hell. He was.
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