Sasha walks over to the windowpane. She draws the blinds and removes her sweater, hanging it on the back of the desk chair before fussing briefly with her hair and returning her attention to this evening’s company.

Vincent is still sitting on the corner of the queen-sized bed. “You know, they don’t wash these after each guest,” he says, gesturing to the outdated burgundy and gold bedspread. “More like every seventeen-or-so.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “That’s supposed to encourage me to take my clothes off, darling?”

“Well, I thought we were off to a good start with the sweater. I just wanted to help you along.”

“Is that so, Vince?” Sasha thrusts her chest outward, pressing her ample breasts towards his body. She puts a finger to his lips. “This is how you can help me.”