Jack was finally on the move. He was only an hour and fifteen minutes away from home, but no thanks to a sudden flash chill in the air which caused the rain that had been falling throughout the day and night to turn icy and pave I-95 into a virtual ice rink, it caused a tractor-trailer to jackknife, but fortunately no one outside of a dented Volkswagen that slid into the back of the truck was badly injured, making what would have been a short drive home for Jack instead a two and half hour wait on the interstate parking lot. During that time Jack made numerous attempts to call home and inform Dorothea of his situation. She had not answered the phone, nor returned his messages. He felt a little worried. Dorothea was angry with him, yes, but vindictiveness, childish behavior and vengeance were habits and attitudes she was not given to expressing. She was the kind of woman who preferred to confront a person on any issue, no matter the discomfort wrought, then to remain silent about what was on her mind and carry a grudge. As the unfortunate caravan of vehicles approached near normal highway speeds, due to the New Jersey Department of Transportation deploying trucks to salt the pavement and emergency vehicles attempting to clear the accident site, Jack decided not to try another call and instead wait until he arrived home.
Grayish-colored curtains in the motel room ghost-danced in the steady breeze that blew in from the partially opened window. Michele' (now Dorothea again) awoke. She was herself. The only hint that Michele' had been present was in the shadowy clothing strewn on the floor next to her side of the bed that was intermittently revealed in flashing yellow and red neon lights beyond the window. From what she could ascertain in the imperfect lighting, she did not recognize the clothes as belonging to her, but there was somehow a strange, distant familiarity about them. Even stranger yet, she was nude; she never slept in the nude. She turned and was mortified at the most disturbing discovery: she was not alone, in fact she laid next to a dead-to-the-world man she did not know, who reeked not only of alcohol but the not too subtle salty-sweet smell of sex. Dorothea thought or needed to believe she was in some horrible dream or nightmare, but as the sleep induced cobwebs swiftly cleared from her mind, her breathing quickened, her anxiety grew acute, her heart pounded like a parade drum in her chest increasing with each marching second. She felt the man's perspiration against her and instinctively flinched away from him trying to be careful not to awaken him. In so doing she also became frightfully conscious of the sticky moisture between her thighs.
'Oh, dear god - no,' the voice in her mind screamed.
She realized horribly then and to her consternation that the experience was all too real and worse than a bad dream – it was a living nightmare. She felt beyond horrified, even sick to her stomach, but fought against the urge to vomit. The only thing that helped her stave off full-blown, screaming out of her mind panic was the thought of awakening the stranger beside her, but he remained dead to the world in a vodka induced slumber. She only desired desperately to get out of the room and as far away from this man as possible. At first, she was caught in a dilemma of inertia caused by her desire to leave and her fear of waking up the man in the process. But she had to act – now. Gently, so that she would not disturb the sleeping stranger, Dorothea pulled the blanket and sheet off herself. The chill present in the room embraced her like an unbidden lover and was made all the more pronounced by her feelings of shame and guilt. Slowly she slid her legs toward the edge of the bed and just as slowly began raising herself to a sitting position. The cheap, worn mattress squeaked and protested under the new shift in weight and positioning. Dorothea held her breath as she anticipated the man awakening, but he remained in deep dormancy. She let out a silent breath as she inched toward the bed's edge and placed her feet on the cold wood floor. The chill turned bone rattling cold as the sensation of stepping upon smooth ice crept from the bottom of her feet through the rest of her body. She began to shiver. In the semi-darkness her eyes searched the clothes on the floor to familiarize herself with them so as not to waste time getting dressed. She desperately scanned the items for a pair of standard panties and to her exacerbation realized the pink-stringed thongs with the white flowery frills were what she must've worn as an under garment. Dear God, but how? she demanded of herself in disbelief. Had she gone mad? She would never, has never worn such things even in her most wishful thinking. Satisfied that all of what she required to wear was within reach she turned to inspect the man, who was still asleep and now beginning to snore lightly. Dorothea stood up. She had no idea of the time and could neither be quite sure of the day. The last she remembered was being in the comfort of her home among grieving family and friends before being abandoned by Jack's urgent errand. But there would be time for that contemplation later. For now… she squatted to lift the thong. Slipped her feet through the stringed loops, up her legs and over her thighs until it came to rest where it belonged and she still felt thoroughly exposed in that area and blushed with embarrassment though no eyes were upon her but her own. She then quickly snatched up the white rayon blouse and buttoned it in short enough time to qualify for the Guinness Book of Records. Next was the short black wool skirt with the side slit; she zippered it in the back and it hugged her form provocatively smoothing out and compacting her rounded hips and buttocks. In the room's partial darkness, she could only glimpse a silhouette of herself in the mirror over the dresser and felt grateful for the lack of a better view of what she imagined must have looked like the perfect street hooker. She did not dwell on the blackened image in the mirror. Remaining was a pair of sheer stockings and spike-heeled shoes. Dorothea contemplated the stockings. They would consume more time to place on than she cared to spend in the room, but it was also too cold and damp outside for her to go completely bare legged.
What to do?
Quickly!
The sleeping stranger stirred, turning from a side position that faced where she had laid to flat on his burly tattooed back while he mumbled incoherently. Dorothea held her breath and eyed the door with every intention of running through it if he so much as opened an eye. The man snorted instead and resumed the heavy breathing that accompanied deep sleep or so she presumed. Dorothea breathed, finally. Hell with putting on the stockings, for now, she determined. She would also forgo the spike-heeled shoes for reasons obvious. She spotted a black purse on the dresser which she presumed belonged to her. Stepping ever so lightly across the frigid floor she approached it. It was opened. She started to zip it shut when she heard a rustling sound from the direction of the bed… she whirled around, and her heart froze as did the blood in her veins. The purse fell from Dorothea's limp hands and hit the floor with a muffled thud. She bent down to retrieve it momentarily turning her back to the sleeping stranger. As she grabbed the purse, she heard squeaking emitted from the bed. She paused for a second afraid to confront the source of the sound but then she stood erect and her mouth dropped open, agape in a scream that produced no sound as the man was standing on the floor at the side of the bed in all of his nakedness staring straight at her. Her legs felt as though they were thin bands of rubber, her knees quivered. The only thing that kept Dorothea's world from going black, preventing her from falling to the floor fainting along with the hapless purse was the horrific fear of once again being helpless and vulnerable in the unbidden presence of this Adam in the Garden of Hell. And then he spoke as though in trance-like tonality: "Forgive me… Duscha. I… loved you… dearly. But… you left me… forever. Now… now… I love… another… more deeply… than I ever… thought I could… again. Her… name… her… name is Mi…"