Mr. SCARPA
She looked up through those wild lashes, revealing her ocean-blue wide eyes that looked at me with curiosity.
Just look at her so unaware that everything; her hours, her breath, her unborn child, was about to belong to me.
“Oh… hello, Mr. Scarpa,” she said.
“You can drop the formalities,” I said, easing a step closer like a priest at a confessional. “Montana, mind if I come in?”
She hesitated like she was unsure, but politeness won. She stepped aside. The dog didn’t bark—good! One day, it would watch me fuck it's owner on every surface her dead husband ever touched. Even the garden.
Bab Populer