Bathroom Monologue: A Trail of Space Smut

They left the front door ajar. In the gap you can see one red stiletto-heeled shoe sitting on its side.

Two stumbling steps inward and you'll see another red stiletto-heeled shoe. There's also a press-on fingernail, with red polish, on the first stair. Looks like that came loose fumbling for the handrail.

Between the front door and the stairs: a slime trail. Translucent, green, two feet wide. It stretches up for four steps, where an imitation fox coat is strewn.

It's a tail of the trail. Three steps up, there's a pocket book.

Then an exoskeleton scalp-plate.

A pair of torn fishnet stockings.

A chrome breathing apparatus oxidizing in our atmosphere.

The crown jewel, on the very last step: the torn wrapper from an "ultra-thin" condom. The slime trail grows thickest there, leading away and consuming two halves of a discarded bra, several superfluous dermal spines, and a lipstick stain. The trail ends at the bedroom door.

You don't want to see what they left in there.