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Laura keeps her underwear – the stuff she's bought herself or that men have given her – in the pink satin case that used to hold her ballet shoes. When Donna flips the clasp, it bursts open under the pressure of all the filmy scraps of lace and nylon. Donna tastes second-hand smoke and perfume and a waft of something very old that makes her think of dark corners and dust.
Laura lounges on her bed, one knee crooked up, hand cocked as if holding a cigarette. "Dig a little deeper, Donna. You might learn something."
Donna swallows; she doesn't like it when Laura makes everything a dare. Still, she pushes her hand into the soft, silky overflow. When she pulls it back, she has a red woven leash in her hand. At the end of it dangles a little collar, like you see on fancy dogs: red leather, diamantes and a silver buckle.
She gives a shriek. It's too ridiculous, like something from a seedy magazine. "Laura, what the hell? Why do you have this?"
"Why do you think, baby?" Laura watches her for a moment with half-closed eyes, then lunges for the leash. "Here, I'll show you."
"No, Laura, don't." Donna's protestations are half-hearted, though. She can't look away as Laura flicks her hair back off her face, and threads the collar around her throat. Laura buckles the collar behind her with practiced ease, then throws the leash at Donna, nonchalant.
"Here. Now you can stop begging your daddy for a puppy."
There's suddenly a power dynamic in the room, and it feeds up and down that narrow leash. Donna doesn't really know why she does it, but she wraps the leash around her wrist, watches it draw taut against the collar. Laura slithers to the floor, onto hands and knees, chin up high so that Donna can see the collar around her neck. There's a hungry expression on her face as she crawls closer to Donna. Donna supposes men find this a humiliating act, that they would be excited to have power over a woman who is on all fours and treated like an animal. They're idiots, Donna thinks. It's so clear that Laura isn't crawling; she's prowling. A thin red thread will not protect you from a lion.
Laura crosses the carpet, reaches the tips of Donna's shoes, breathes on Donna's ankles. Donna's heart is racing, and she is oddly certain that when Laura looks up, she will see teeth and primal rage.
Mrs Palmer's voice echoes up from downstairs. "Girls! Come set the table for dinner!" The mood shatters, and Laura is just Laura again, sitting on her backside and laughing with a friendly, open mouth.
"We're coming, Mom!" She unbuckles the collar and throws the leash onto the messy bed, then runs her hands through her hair and gives Donna a grin.
At home in her bed, Donna thinks about that collar, and the way the soft leather would feel wrapped around her throat. Gersten is sound asleep, and Harriet is out with their dad on some astronomy field trip, so it's safe for Donna to slip a finger between her legs and stroke her clit. In her imagination, Laura holds the leash in an uncaring hand, the way she holds a cigarette, while Donna crouches at her side with knees spread, panting. Then, when Laura is ready, she reels Donna in inch by inch. Inexplicably, there's jazz playing somewhere in this fantasy, but Donna doesn't care. In her narrow bed she arches up, rigid and silent so as not to wake Gersten. As she comes, all she sees is Laura's face, full of menace and promise.