PTSD, the hooker and the vet

The hot water for the entire three-story apartment building was depleted, our feet were wrinkled with over-saturation and almost two hours had passed. Maggie and I were laying under the cool water of the shower on the bathtub bottom, our bodies entwined, facing each other, Maggie's head tucked into the curve of my neck. The water hit directly on the side of Maggie's left bum cheek, the spray from it covering her left breast with a constant little stream of water. The streak of hair blended with pieces of her own darker shade, but still very bold and apparent.

We got up to towel off when the loud, angry knocks began on the front locked door. By the time we'd finished drying off, quickly drying off I might add, the knocks were louder, angrier on the back door... the door that was closer to the bathroom and kitchen area. As we walked out of the bathroom, our hearts pounding, I went to yell at him to calm down first when an unrecognized voice yelled "IS ANYONE HOME? SMALL FIRE IN THE BASEMENT, GET OUT OF THE BUILDING!"