By Jon Eugene

The doorbell rang again. It was the third time. Royce finally heard it over the noise in his headphones as he played his computer game. He took off the headphones and went downstairs to answer the insistent bell.

He opened the door to a stunning woman, whose light-brown hair was frosted on the ends, illumined by the porchlight with a background of furiously falling snow. “Finally,” she said. “I was starting to freeze out here!” She shook her head, droplets of melting snow flying in all directions.

“Uh,” was Royce’s profound comment.

“Hi!” said the woman as she bustled past him in the open doorway. She turned around once she was fully in the warmth of the house. “You must be Royce,” she continued. “I’m Elle, Rachel’s roommate at school. Do you know where she is?” She had a small overnight bag she tossed behind the door.

“Uh,” was his comment, as profound as his first. “Upstairs, maybe? I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since our parents went out to a party.”

“That’s OK,” said Elle, as she shed her coat and gloves. As the coat came off, Royce saw what could only be described as a ‘clubbing’ outfit, form fitting, diaphanous, and short on the woman. It accentuated Elle’s figure. Royce stared, looking for the tell-tale signs of bra or panties. There were none he could detect. “Could you find a place for these so that they can dry out? I’ll find Rachel.” With a toss of the coat towards Royce, she bounced up the stairs, calling Rachel’s name.

Royce shook his head, even as he draped the coat over a chair in the kitchen. ‘Women,’ he thought, his father’s favorite expression coming to mind: “Siempre mujeres!”

Just then, there was a thump and a crash and a wail coming from upstairs. He ran up the stairs, two-at-a-time, flung open the door to his sister’s room and stopped, dumbfounded. There, on the floor, was his sister, Rachel, sitting, with her knees bent, holding her head with both hands, without a stitch of clothing on her body. Elle was kneeling beside her, holding her own head in both of her hands, both of them with tears in their eyes, moaning.

Once again, Royce was eloquent and profound: “What happened?” he said.

Elle looked over at him and said with a groan, “She was coming out of the bathroom, saw me, screamed, and dropped her brush. We both went to get it and bonked our heads. I think she might have hit her head on the door frame.”

Royce knew what to do. He knelt beside her, ignoring, as best he could her state of dishabille. “Rachel? Let’s get you on the bed, OK?”

Rachel nodded and tried to stand, but crumpled when she put some weight on her hand. Royce quickly put his hands and arms under her and lifted her, straining to stand. He finally got upright and took the three steps to the bed and gently laid her on it. Elle was able to stand on her own and arranged a pillow under Rachel’s head as Royce attempted to put a sheet over her nude body.

“I’ll be right back,” he announced and went into the bathroom. When he emerged a moment or two later, he had a wet washcloth in his hand. He laid that against Rachel’s forehead, then grabbed another pillow from the other side of the bed, reached under the covers and placed the pillow beneath her feet.

Without saying anything else, he left the room and returned about a minute later. In his hand was a flashlight. To Elle’s amazement, he took the flashlight, turned it on, and then flashed the light in each of his sister’s eyes. He sighed.