Don’t Ask Me How I Know

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Big Tits

Lately she’s been borrowing things out of his apartment. She never returns them, but he never considers them stolen. She just forgets until he needs something back and brings it up. He only has himself to blame since his door is never locked and most of the time it’s hanging ajar. Besides, she is far from the only one who goes in and out as she pleases whether he’s at home or not. But she pays her rent on time and always shows contrition when he asks for something back. Usually it’s a pot or pan, maybe a book she pulls off the shelf in his cramped office. Even so, this is how she comes to be wearing a T shirt he’d almost forgotten owning when she bahis şirketleri knocks on his doorframe just before midnight.“Lucy?”“Yeah. Sorry it’s late, but…”Then she’s standing in the open double-doorway to the living room in the borrowed T shirt pulled on over the top of an improbably short dress. The shirt looks like a hasty concession to modesty, hiding the rest of the dress. He has only ever seen her in baggy clothes until now and there’s a vital synergy in the play of sinew and bone he never knew she had.Her head tilts to the side and she winces. “Can you look at something?”He splays the book he was reading upside down on his thigh. bahis firmaları “Look at what?”She comes around the coffee table and turns one leg to the side. She brings her hands to the hem of her dress, lifting it up and protectively cupping her mound in one gesture. Across the inside of her thigh are two bloody scratches about two and a half inches long. The scratches are slightly welted and there’s the violet blush of an oncoming bruise surrounding them. He looks up at her face and frowns. She’s looking at him past his expression. He figures she’s so used to his curious frowning she probably thinks it’s his default setting for everyone.“Take kaçak bahis siteleri a seat.” He doesn’t mean to sigh but it comes anyway. He goes into the bathroom and searches the cabinet for gauze, tape and peroxide. In the living room he kneels between her bare feet and sets the items from the bathroom on the cushion next to her. Her thighs are open and luminous, which makes the scratches all the more glaring. They probably won’t leave scars but they make him think of scars just the same. Everything is scarred. The furniture. The T shirt she took from his bedroom. Himself, perhaps, more than any of it, but he is making a silent wish she will swim fast away from anything that leaves such permanent flaws.He grabs a couple of tissues from the box on the table and presses them to the flesh just below the scratches, then he pours peroxide over the wounds.“Oh. Stings,” she says.

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