<div class="floatleft">(https://www.mediafire.com/convkey/dba2/ack8z9n23ezcqzx6g.jpg)<br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><div align="center"><strong> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">Nan Rapido</span> </strong> <span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span><div align="center">_____<br/><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 11pt;">Det. Kantonspolizei Zürich</span></strong></div></div></div><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 11pt;">Apparently neither one of us is into ‘what have we done?’, ‘what does this mean?’—the something more than playing in bed discussion.  Clearly, Pussy is not.  So she has an on/off switch, not a throttle down.  She returns to bed and it’s ‘off’.<br/><br/>I look at my clothes folded neatly.  I get up and dress.  Everything’s still in place.  I text.  Leaving the hotel, such as it is, an unmarked car pulls around and I get in.  I settle into the passenger seat, turn to the driver and say, “I’m not sure how that went.  Take me home and we’ll figure it out tomorrow.” <br/></span>