Again. It had happened again. What was the fucking problem?
The dress hugged her. Cleavage peeking out just enough to prove she’s not a man. Her legs were a paradise upon which no hairs could dwell, and her skin a palace with no room for blemishes, but yet, here she was in that same situation again.Read More »
I have an old picture. It’s of you balancing me on your belly, with my back to the ceiling. I couldn’t have been more than a year old. A steamy cup of tea is on the table with a spoon pierced inside, and the TV is frozen at CNN.
I have a memory. Of me waking you up every night and saying I’m hungry so we can go have tea and bread. I remember how you’d spread one slice with jam and butter on the other. And you’d dip it in tea so I could chew faster and let you go back to bed.
Sixteen, seventeen years later, and I still spread my bread like that.