Betti was feeling particularly hot and bothered at the end of her hard work day at the brothel. As she sat to lather herself in the quaint little bath tub she felt like this was a breather she greatly deserved. Her brother sat in the foyer untying his shoes when suddenly he felt the urge to pee, his bladder engorging with 2 liters of pale yellow urine. He dashed into the toilet where Betti lay languidly in her tub the sounds of her breathing soft and mellow. As he relieved himself he realized he forgot all about the heavy meaty broth that was now quietly spilling over the edge of the earthen pot. As Bertie set the table in their dark almost formidable looking room Betti tip-toed her way in wearing her peach pink bathrobe, her feet still damp and soaked from her luxurious oatmeal and sandalwood bath. She dropped the expanse of her behind down onto the hugely dense and comfortable sofa and switched the stereo on. Tonight she was too tired to let the jazz special trouble her. Jazz reminded her of her ex husband, a sax player. She was in no mood to eat and soon she dozed off her neck positioned awkwardly on the side of the leather recliner. Bertie ate his meal with great gluttony. It was his only meal after all. Tired too from the long work hours of manual labour at the mine and his body unwashed and marked with stubborn tar, Bertie blew off the candle burning in the lamp and laid himself onto the rat chewed mauve carpeting, a heavy lump of sorrow rising in the depths of his throat as he recalled the loving memories of their 3 days-now-dead bunny Alfred.