Her skin felt unbearably hot, sweaty, stretched. Running her hand through her damp hair, she looked over her shoulder towards where he sat, drinking something green and icy from a plastic tumbler. His fingers were thick and stubby around the glass, his knuckles hairy, his eyes cruel and shallow. Seconds before, she had stood up from the lounge chair, repulsed by the seven words that had escaped his lips, and walked away. Vile, disgusting things, a reward for her kindness.




About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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