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“You wanna show me your bedroom?”
I gape at him, nails digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood.
“Sure,” is the next word out of my mouth and my brain is piecing together new plans. Backups. Redundancies. I can strangle him. Suffocate him in my pillows. Knock him out with the limited hard-cover edition of the works of Kafka. Bash his skull in…and stain my luxury 1200 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Okay. That one’s out of the question. The dry-cleaners would never get the viscera out without bleach.
