The dog-lover

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Rhonda Baker lay prone across the queen-sized, walnut-framed water bed on her belly, her arms bent at the elbows, her beautiful young face resting in her hands while she watched the Democratic convention on her television set perched atop her antique dresser. Politics had never appealed to her sense of justice, but on a hot summer afternoon the paunchy-bellied frustrated lobbyists and their prissy wives parading around in sexless shirtwaist dressed before the cameras, helped pass the time and add a few laughs on an otherwise uneventful day.

Her shapely buttocks, covered only by a brief black bikini, jutted up proudly behind her at the base of her long tapering back and her legs were bent at the knees, her ankles clapping together in mid-air. The soft August breeze blew the curtains aside and poured into the room, whisking across her nearly naked back like the tender touch of a lover, and the sun slanted to make golden stripes across the burgundy bedspread.

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