" Is he still here?" No. He left early." She waved her hand, trying to dismiss the whole event. She took hold of me and hugged me. "I'm sorry this is ...o hard." She held me, both of us standing, her arms up around my neck. I put my arms around her, felling her slim body through her robe. She smelled good, faintly of sweat and her perfume, familiar, like she smelled in the morning when we used to wake up together.We stayed there for a minute and she whispered again, "I'm sorry." My erection. The bidding seemed to go on forever. I could feel the hot lights bringing out a not unflattering sheen to my tanned flesh. Every so soften I raised my eyes through the blinding footlights to the audience, but mostly I kept them down at my manicured toes. Finally I heard the sound of the gavel and it beat in time to the hard hammering of my heart. "SOLD!" I heard the auctioneer say. "Lot number 26 Misty goes to the number "139" for one million one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.". Besides, I felt like what was happening to me was written on my forehead. I volunteered at a non-profit. I called my boss and told her I was taking indefinite leave. From what I knew and read, this was more like Stockholm syndrome, not like a rape victim.I began to sleep more normally in the middle of the week, which was good and bad. I frequently dreamt of the events in the van and in the woods. I always woke up sopping wet. I really wanted to know where those woods were and who's property it. She had more than half the chance.Our eyes locked and she smiled. I think I smiled. More likely, my jaw dropped open on the left side, giving me a dumb, lop-sided grin that I can’t stand but always end up with when my guard is down. She stifled a laugh. This was bad.“You know,” I said, gesturing to the painting in front of me, “This represents a fear of the unknown.” The painting was a dark maroon rectangle, with a single yellow dot in the top left corner.“Does it?” she replied, her eyebrow.
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