Invasion by Mary E. Palmerin, Poppet Page A

files on what these trafficking victims go through has given me so many ideas. I’m expecting her home in the next half hour, and at the first available opportunity I’m slipping her the sleeping pills because I don’t have roofies conveniently at hand.
    I’m so excited my muscles are tense with anticipation.
     

     
    Carly enters our home at 17h20, and does pretty much what I did. I keep as silent as a shadow in my den, not moving a muscle, tense as all hell, listening to the activity above me. High heels click from the front door to the guest loo. It flushes and it is weird to hear the water gushing through the pipes above my head.
    Her Prius is parked in the garage so I know she got the shuttle from the airport. Her luggage has a squeaky wheel, and I didn’t hear it come inside further than what I surmise is the entrance foyer.
    Then the basement door opens and I have the first ping of panic. Holding my breath I start counting to remain calm, muscles braced for action, my heartbeat gonging in my ears as high heels clop down to my level, moving to the opposite side of the basement from my location after she switched the strip lights on. No light penetrates my corner and I’m hoping she can’t smell me the way I can smell her.
    The downstairs chest freezer releasing the suction of the lid reaches me and I wish so badly I could spy on her. We’re so close, so fucking close. The woman of my dreams is standing fifteen feet away from me and my groin is tingling with her proximity.
    Time lapses in conjunction with my urge to peek, while she deliberates over lasagna or mac’ncheese, or any other of the squllion options she has in that frozen pantry, and I inch closer, to the incremental seam between the cardboard boxes, staring at my lady with her back to me. The pencil skirt is cute but businesslike, the high heels are stilts for midgets, the silk blouse is untucked and sheer, the jacket clearly discarded now that she’s in her safety zone.
    Her zone isn’t safe at all, I witnessed it first hand when the dude in black came around. She’s safe from me though. Well … after I get to play with her pussy.
    I’m ridiculously anxious and paradoxically thrilled that worn panties will be hitting the laundry basket.
    Dressed in insipid cream from head to toe, pale legs turn, her instincts kicking in, and I halt all respiration, tensing up along with her. Her nails are short but painted pearlescent pink, and the lighting stains her eyes with shadows so harsh it hides the hue of her irises, but she shuts the lid after glancing around, creeped out by her basement, by the vibe of wrongness because there’s an invader in her space.
    I’m a space invader. For some corny reason I’m tempted to laugh out loud, the pressure in my head building with the desire to breathe and chuckle.
    Heels clomp with little legs back up the steps and I can just see the sexy calf muscles working with each elevation. The light dies and the door shuts, and I relax, sagging, bent over to inhale with exaggeration.
    Something knocks against the door and I’m right back to assault mode, but when I don’t hear her movement I figure out what it is. She’s kicked her shoes off.
    Hours are maddening, slowly driving me to insanity while I wait for opportunity. I’ve lived through many sounds, acclimating to having her home, trying to assimilate normal noise to abnormal, mapping her movements and attempting to glean routine.
    Once she left me the microwave pinged after reheating, and the labored sound of the washing machine working was discernible. Other pipes gurgled over my head and I knew she was in the shower, so made a quick escape to see what she’s done.
    A bottle of cabernet stands open on the kitchen counter next to a half full glass of red wine. The foil packaging which contained oxtail stew waits empty next to it, and I strain to listen for the shower, for activity. It’s faint but I can just hear the water running in a needle spray, creating