She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. “Forgive me, madam,” he said stiffly, “but in such a case as this it is better that nothing in the room should be disturbed until the arrival of the police. Rats and things crawling all over. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone.
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