March 20, 2013
Care less about your medicine cabinet, Michelle. This is about someone making Lauren dead The tremors continued. She reached around with her right hand, took hold of the empty left sleeve, and squeezed. It's not that it's There's someone in there. Someone you don't want listening in? No, it's She glanced back. He didn't know Lauren. Long as he doesn't come out shooting, he's no problem for me. Hold on, she said. Let me just go explain. You wouldn't be trying to rabbit, Michelle? Sure, I'm gonna jump out of a two-story window one of you wants to wait down below to catch me, fine. How about this, said Milo.
Have lover boy show himself, then go back to sleep or whatever he's doing. Whatever, she said, backing away, then stopping. Lauren's really dead? As dead as they come, Michelle. Shit. Damn. The brown eyes misted. Hold on. We waited in door bell intercom the doorway, and a few moments later a man wearing nothing but red running shorts appeared from the left, rubbing his gums. Thirty-five or so, with unruly dishwater hair, a goatish chin beard, and sleepy, close-set eyes, shoulders brocaded by tattoos, chest acne, and fibroid scars up and down his arms.
He held his hands up, accustomed to surrender, prepared to be rousted. Michelle materialized behind him, saying, They're cool, Lance go back to sleep. Lance looked to Milo for confirmation. Pleasant dreams, Lance. I hawalked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I hagone thbrigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and hano more on't. I habore that much, that I were owd when I were young. Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, The great know door bell
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