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She'd gotten places on the raft for the two of them by sleeping with a sixty-two year old neighbor.She should have ended up a broken, discarded vessel. A person dead inside. Yet somehow she hadn't.What allows certain people to overcome every obstacle placed in their way?It wasn't religious faith that had allowed her to survive. Nor the aunt and uncle and the extended family in America who'd welcomed and embraced her. All that had helped but the main ingredient had been instead a simple, deep, strong ingrained strength and love of life she'd been born with. A love of life she unashamedly welcomed me into. And why me? What did I have that had ignited her love?I didn't go to work on Thursday morning. Nor did I let Marisa leave. "I'm late, I have to go to work," she insisted after we'd just finished making love at eight-thirty in the morning. I pulled her back down into my arms.Mike called at eleven, wondering where I was. "I'm in love," I answered. Marisa was sitting astride me, riding. The bed was large, but some how we only used a very small part of it. Meadow curled up next to me and lay her head on my shoulder again. She sighed in contentment. I kissed her. Her lips were still bruised, but she returned the kiss as fervently as she could. We slept in the bed together all night, naked.I awoke early in the morning. Meadow was still asleep. I marveled at her hair, her breasts so close, her scent. What a fantastic woman! She was the sweetest thing I had met in a long time. It made me think of Robert and Godfrey, and their women. They had been sweet also. They were also happy now. I lay there next to Meadow for a long while as I remembered my friends and their women, and how they had found them. (See Ruth and Rebeca for details)Meadow awoke with a start. She began to cry. I turned toward her, and asked, “Are you in pain, sweet Meadow?”“No, my Master. You must leave today, and I have been unable to pleasure you. I am a poor slave girl unable to make her Master happy,”.
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