I went back to my room, 307, but it was too late. The door was locked, someone was inside. I could see in from the hole where the doorknob was. A guy in a red flannel shirt was picking up, then putting down documents in green folders on the table. It wasn’t my old table. It looked much more expensive. There were dusty boxes outside the door. I picked one up, my books were there, encased in dust too. But they were books I had kept in the storage room. Critique of Pure Reason, The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold. Perhaps someone had tried to return them to me, then given up. No one goes the extra mile anymore, I thought. I went to another room. A woman was there, blond, long hair, ‘80s style, Cindy Crawford?, not my type. She was wearing what I conceptually think of as “sexy lingerie”, lacy hosieries, knickers, bra, all in black, a set. She said she wanted to fuck me. We fucked, for a while, in a bed with a pistachio-green satin cover. I never came. Then a guy came, already naked, Caucasian. His dick was much bigger than mine. They wanted a threesome, the big-dicked Caucasian guy and the woman. I said, no, thanks, then left the room. I was afraid someone would find out what just happened, smell the woman’s pussy juice still on me. But in my mind, nothing had happened.