Duck into the next room.

Being at a party, you're really not in the mood to converse with your ex-girlfriend. The door across the hall is open, so you quickly duck into the next room. There, you find a sitting room, and a familiar (but not too familiar, thank god) sight: the guy from before, in Room 250. He lounges in the middle of a big blue couch, his arms draped over two young women at his sides. They coo and coddle enthusiastically as their hands run over various parts of his body. Who is this guy? The dean's son? A firefighter? A god?

Of course he's not a god, but his little fan club appears to think so. Two more girls sit and wait at the ends of the chair, looking on with longing and anticipation, as if they are waiting for their turns to be near.

One of these "ladies in waiting" in particular catches your eye. Tall, tan and lean, with long jet black hair running straight down the length of her back, she is a sight for sore eyes. What strikes you the most, though, are her clothes. Her light green, sleeveless top is unevenly cut around the shoulders, and the same follows for the bottom of the blouse, which hides little of her midriff. It's as if she had made the blouse herself, or taken an existing blouse and modified it for a different standard.

Stranger still, a very short, dark brown mini adorns her shapely waist, but it, too, seems to have come from something much more substantial. The fraying and clumsy cutting are all too obvious. If you rooted around the trash outside, would you find the remnants of a green sleeved blouse and a dark brown, full-length skirt? Who would come to a party and wreck her own clothes just for that? Then again, the sight before you is anything but ordinary. Did the Man of the Couch not think kindly of her conservative threads?

He looks up from his women now and then to talk to other partygoers. He sits like a king on his throne, entertaining his royal guests. His concubines, though, utterly impassive to anything around them but their lord. A queen? Completely superfluous.