CRASH Not paying attention! Not her fault, some slightly drunken guest has caromed into her, knocking an empty martini glass off her tray to shatter on the floor – but it’s like a siren going off, Ladies want hot sex Preble alerting the whole room to her failure , the volume of conversation drops all at once, and every head swivels in her direction. “Pardon me sir!” she blurts out, head bowed, “Pardon this clumsy slave, I beg you, pardon this clumsy worthless slave…” (She wants to cry.) She wants to drop to her knees, pick up the shards of broken glass with her fingers – pick them up with her tongue, if need be. But she’s helpless in the arm binders – and then it’s too late, Master is moving through the crowd, and Master is facing her. Gulp. The way a, delicate flower open for the rising … she feels her face doing this, but in reverse – closing, collapsing, folding in, in a failure that scalds her, scalds her soul. (I am nothing) “What happened,” He says, in the calmest of tones. (But loud enough for the whole room to hear.) Mumble: “I’m sorry, Master.” (I am nothing. I am worthless. I have no value. I am fat, ugly, stupid, nothing – don’t look at me, for the of God please, don’t look at me, don’t even acknowledge that I exist.) His voice is calm, cool, implacable. The whole room is watching, waiting, listening. “Girl. What happened here.”

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