She chatted and chatted, without respite, about all that she’d done and seen since she’d left Wonderground. She’d only just arrived in Congress,...and was currently dossing on the sofa in a very grubby squat in the Shit district of the city, an area Innocence had never visited for fear of being attacked by muggers or for being approached as a prostitute. She returned again and again in her rambling conversation to her abiding love for Innocence which persisted so strongly, through all the fucks. ” I leaned over to look at the words and his arm went around my waist. It was warm and I wiggled very slightly and began to read the poem about men and women and “feeling myself…alive” and Mr. Emerson was rubbing my back. “What do you think,” he asked. “It’s nice,” I said, not knowing what else to say and then blurted out: “Your hand feels nice on my back Mr. Emerson.” and he rubbed up and down my spine. My legs were getting weak and I moved into him. “Are you okay?” he asked and I could. More

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