The Battle of the Bra Clasp was going on behind her back, a vicious, winner-take-all contest, a two-person Siege of Leningrad. PMMess wasn’t resisting, but Victoria’s Secret was. My one-handed bra opening skills were decidedly rusty. It didn’t help that I felt something wrapped around my foot, like an extension cord, or perhaps a cardboard box. She tasted sweet, with a bit of biscuitiness from the happy-hour beer (she was a beer hound too). One . . . more . . . wire . . . loop . . . sticking . . . get . . . off . . . now.
Jesus. This Hurts to read
