![]() ![]() “And I don’t think you’re stupid,” she says. She lifts her head to meet my eyes, and a flash of feeling, hot and painful, shoots down my spine. She’s still staring at my chest when she says, again, “I don’t think you’re a child.” ![]() ![]() I feel magnetized to her, frozen in place. She runs her hands up my chest and that simple motion feels so good I’m suddenly terrified. Her hands seem to sear into my body, heat pressing between us, even through my shirt. She takes a step forward, presses her hands flat against my torso, and I turn into a statue. “I don’t think you’re a child,” she says. What a way to go.īut when she finally speaks, she doesn’t sound angry. She stares at me, her lips slightly parted, and I’m thinking this is it, this is how I die, she’s going to pull out a knife and cut me open, rearrange my organs, put on a puppet show with my intestines. ![]()
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