The Bad Gentleman
I throw the broken part in my hand to the ground, and while waiting for them, I step on his fingers, pressing down slowly, until I feel the tremor under my shoe.
“Remember this,” I tell him quietly. “Every time you try to touch someone who isn’t yours.”
“Fuck!”
“Mommy’s boy,” I mock, staring down at him with barely contained disgust. “Always someone else cleaning up after you.” My voice is low and dangerous.
“Well, this time your mother won’t be cleaning up after you. Maybe rotting away in a fucking cell will teach you some damn manners,” I spit and he shakes his head, raising it slightly to look at me. I lean downward, a smile playing on my lips.