My Pretty Dirty Kitten
Then she bursts into full-blown laughter, holding her stomach as she bends over.
“You are insane,” she says, in between laughs.
“You love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.” She plates the eggs — slightly overdone on one side, which I am not going to mention — and slides a plate across the counter toward me. “Eat.”
I look at the eggs, which are slightly overdone, by the way, and then at her. A triumphant smile tugs at my lips. I want it written on every tabloid, on every piece of paper, spread across the internet: tonight marks the beginning of Dmitry Orlov’s best year in existence.