The Story of Tammy Armstrong
I went over to press my hand to the glass, awed by the beauty of Vancouver, but then I was grabbed by the arm.
“Please, refrain from touching the windows. We really hate to be cleaning up after you disgusting humans,” said the man. As I looked at him, his dark hair fell in front of his face, and I could detect blue eyes underneath there. I snatched my hand back while he sniffed the air. “Ah, you’re Tammy. I see now,” he smirked, and when he flipped his hair; his gaze seemed to soften. Almost as if he knew me, and what was weirder was that I felt the same way.
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