"You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Little by little, she stopped hating him. With thinly veiled glee, Michelle described a rumor she had heard about John at a recent party. I wanted it badly. Folks don’t like ’em. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. Jack looked towards the door. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. He was not a sailor. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. He was speechless.
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