The House Guest, part I

She wakes up and everything is heavy and hot. Her mouth tastes like the afternoon; her hand reaches out for her watch and, squinting, she reads that it is indeed 2 pm. A solid night's rest. An hour for every year of her life. Vague recollection of dreams-- laughter, windows, mattress stitches-- floats by in her mind as she shakes the sleep out of her hair and throws on an un-buttoned Oxford. Two drops in the eyes, a smear of Chapstick, and she's good to go. Heading down the stairs, she remembers what Mr. N had said the night before... something about a son? Huh. She hesitates, should I put on some make-up? Nah. We're trying to be free, aren't we? Yes.