"And...I think it's important that you respect it as best as you can. Otherwise...," I swallowed hard, "...otherwise, I think we may have rushed into ...etting married." That was hard enough to say already, and I even haven't gotten to the worst part yet. "Wait, what? Are you kidding? If you're joking, then this isn't funny, Robert. Okay? So, just stop it." Alexis said, looking pissed. I always thought it was funny how her accent gets thicker when she's upset. Even now, I wanted to laugh but the. As I said above, I am single. Never married – never wanted to be. No c***dren and don’t want any. When I finally moved away to college, I loved being alone and have never wanted to change that. I enjoy the freedom to live how I want, date who I want, and battle my demons without anyone telling me how I should or should not behave.At least that’s what I told myself. Deep down I always feel kind of alone. Desperate to be independent, I fight against the “need” to have a father figure – fucked up. I tried to make myself busy so I wouldn't go back to staring at her butt, but she called my name from the other side of the store. I was flustered but responded and walked over to where she was. The view damn near made me paint the inside of my underwear. She was bent over looking at some hand tools we had on one of the lower hooks. She asked me a question about the difference between two brands and I tried to answer her without making it obvious that I was pitching a tent. She grabbed one of. She walked down the short hallway to the door and opened it."Yes?" Mrs. Cartwright? Registered letter for you." A white- haired, stoop-shouldered postman handed her a manila envelope. His eyes blatantly traced the contours of her breasts and thighs under the loosely tied bathrobe, and he smiled with obvious appreciation."Th-thank you," she said, drawing her robe tighter around her and grabbing the envelope. Who could... ? There was no return address on the letter itself, and only and unreadable.
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