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Show 92 a ticket. She alluded to getting back to the dormitory after hours a couple of times, and being confronted by the house mother, and having to invent a plausible excuse. She had quit telling him she was bored. He pulled the tray from the rinser and while waiting for it to cool unfastened his belt and pulled off his clammy trousers, which had become an irritant, like fur on the teeth. They clung to him disagreeably while he was trying to get out of them, and he had to stand on one foot while getting his other one out of the pantleg, which pulled inside out. He hopped to keep his balance and skidded on his heel, knocking an elbow against the tray of steaming dishes, which fortunately did not fall. He rolled the pants up to keep things from falling out of his pockets and placed the bundle on top of his sandals to keep them from soaking up the film of water on the floor. He then attacked the rack of clean dishes. The new cloud of steam from the rinser felt comfortable against his chest, and he didn't mind the trickle that ran from his groin down his leg, pausing to collect among the hairs on his thigh. The light reflecting off the windows made opalescent phantoms overhead. The ventilator grate above the doorway glowed black through a screen of gauze. He loaded another tray to follow the one that rested at the entrance to the washer and stood looking at the sink across the room, that faded in and out of focus behind rolling clouds that seemed to be taking over the room. He had forgotten about the sink. Crusted pots lay stacked in it, high enough to touch the taps. Lorin recognized burnt smears of mashed potato. He would be immured here for at least another hour, he reflected, pulling down his sodden underpants and stepping out of them. He tossed them on top of his trousers and watched a billow of steam sweep past the pile of clothing. He was warm and his pores felt clean. He pushed the waiting tray into the washer and carried the hot clean tray |