Just Right (Part 23)
Gretel | Grinding Bones to Make Bread
Eyes on me. Not his. He barely looked my way. Their eyes — droopy lids suddenly sparking with interest as the odd couple climbs aboard the 4 headed north to the Bronx.
It was the last place I wanted to go.
I caught a glimpse from a young black man, who looked away, pulled his hoodie down. I knew what he saw, what he feared. The tee barely hid anything, plastered to my tits. And to my right sat a literal giant, a man so large he must eat other men just to live. His hand wrapped around the back of my neck, engulfing me, fingers almost closing around my throat. But delicate. The way he sat me down on the hard, scarred plastic seat. He could have snapped my neck without a thought, but for a moment, it was if my father was there, easing me into my chair before the recital, trying to calm my nerves with his whispers of encouragement.
No whispers from the Giant. No words. Not once. I’d never heard the creature speak, his lips forever sealed by the Russian. The Giant spoke with action. Not a wince. Not a scowl. Not…
