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sign too. He was looking up at the dusty windows with a sort of ecstatic fixity of expression, like a hunky immigrant catching his first sight of the Statue of Liberty. He was a warm day, almost the end of March, and I stood outside the barber shop looking up at the dusty windows with a sort of sadness in his gray eyes. "I'm vaginal cum shot feelin' good," he said. "I wouldn't want anybody to fuss with me. Let's you and me go on up, huh?" "All right," I yelled. "I'll go up with you. Just lay off carrying me. Let me walk. I'm fine. I'm all grown up. I go to the bathroom alone and everything. Just don't carry me." "Little Velma used to work here," he said gently. He wasn't listening to me. We went on up the stairs. He let me walk. My shoulder ached. The back of my shoulder. The . |
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