I'd never really paid her much attention. I knew she was one of the smartest girls in school, but like most boys I concentrated my gaze on more attrac...ive girls.Tamary was not obese. She was fat, but because she was short, it belied her athletic interior. She was second string on the softball team, and she had handed my ass to me when our PE class covered tennis. Her typical student smiling mask, shaded by a clean and brushed mop of un-styled hair, no doubt hid some sadness. Her clothes were. Appropriate. Matches my mood. Burnside took a shower and stood looking at herself in her hallway mirror. My fucking tits, she thought, God they look nasty. Just a few years ago she had been proud of her large breasts. They still looked all right in a bra or corset. But recently they had fallen. Loose, they sagged like two partially deflated water balloons, according to the woman’s critical view of herself. Her skeptical eye scanned the rest of her body. It still looked OK. But for how much. She pushed me down on the bed, pulling my shirt off. “You dirty old bastard.” “I’ve always loved you, Rachel.”“Yes, but you’re dirty because you fell in love with me when I was eleven,” she giggled.“But I didn’t do anything about it,” I protested playfully.“Yeah, but you thought about it. How many pictures of me in my bikini do you have in your camera?” she had her shirt and bra off now, and she was teasing her nipples.“A few…” I admitted, helping her fondle her breasts.She unbuttoned my jeans. His mark alerts me of his origin. He is up for sale from the Roswell farm, and looks to be used to some hard labor in the sugar boiler. I write down his number “41” and the maximum price that I am willing to bid for him. Over at the female posts my walk through leaves me empty. None there are worthy of the Hopkins plantation. Either too young or too old. Entering the cell section of the market, the roof over hangs cutting the light down to a dim glow. The cells are where the new slaves are.