Emma Hardy28 September 2019
It was on the fourth of these dates that I met M——. M—— was a large, wide Croatian man. His belly peered ahead of him, and his hair was badly balding, with only the too-long stragglers remaining around his crown. He pulled a seat out across from me at the Lindt Café on Little Collins Street and seemed to fill the entire window we were next to. He looked down at me and shook his head, letting out a sputter of air. He pushed his palms out in the shape of a cross, perhaps to cover my cleavage, and gave another distressed sigh.
Lindsay Lohan’s done this, I think, as the cop takes my mugshot. Should I smile? I give the camera a glare that looks petulant, childish.
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