Alexander
I keep that tumbled stone in my pocket right through my sunday afternoon with the boys. I roll it in my fingers while they eat their shitty burgers. I grip it tight in my palm as I hug them goodbye. And I grip it tight all the way home.
I tell myself I’ll put the stone in the cabinet with the rest of my collection, but it’s on my nightstand when I slip into bed, and back in my pocket in time to leave for work in the morning.
Amy Leigh Randall. Brooklyn Road, EC1.
I have a good memory for detail.
I hold it up to the window in my office. Examine every little inclusion.
Angel hair. Blonde strands, like hers.
I remember how she smelled. How her eyelashes fluttered. How her tight little p***y gripped me so perfectly and sucked me dry.
And then I talk some sense into myself.
I
