She must use her time well. She was taught that. She goes into the kitchen. It is tidy but not properly clean. It does not reach the standards she has been trained to. She looks in the cupboards. More untidiness! She carefully lines up the tins and jars, labels all facing forwards. (4)She still cannot settle. She does not want to be occupied with cleaning when the man returns. Especially if he is expecting a meal. Her best option is to be ready ... she returns upstairs, she makes the bed. Tidies the room, gets washed and cleans her teeth and straight away notices how sharp and minty the tooth paste is, compared to that she is used to. The man is still not back.Jennifer (but perhaps really Vyera) finds the office – it's actually a small bedroom – and looks at the computer. It stands mute and silent. She is tempted to turn it on, but should she? Is she allowed? She remembers – remembers all too vividly – another morning when she was left alone in an office with a computer. At the end. I didn't know her name. Didn't matter. I'd first seen her two days ago, shopping at one of those punk-clothing stores in the mall. In her early twenties, she was long-legged and thin, almost anorexic. Her short hair was straggly and dyed black to match her lipstick. Green eyes wide, and shining so brightly through her mascara that they illuminated her dark clothes. I guess what I noticed most, aside from the large nipples that stuck through her shirt, was her smile. Long, like her legs, and thin, like her.She took off her black leather jacket and began moving toward the closet. Luckily, she must have been tired, and after a few steps just tossed it at the door that shielded me. She was dressed darker than the room: black silk button-up shirt, black suede skirt that ended half-way up her thighs, and black boots just above her ankle with heels nearly as long as the soles.She turned back and flicked up a light switch on the wall with no result. She sighed. A short, sweet sigh. And headed.
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