He's not the boss of me. He thinks he is. Parading his beer belly in the usual overstretched Saharan shirt, the buttons of which threatened to fly off with every chuckle, he patted a space beside him on the sofa.
"Sit down," he said. His breathing menaced to choke him.
He had money from here to Monaco and back, and two beautiful wives at home but still chased after countless young women like me. I know it but I don't care.
God has created only one of my dad's kind of men. The rest is an ignominious bunch of pigs. The neighbor who tucked his hand under my pretty flowered shirt when I was five, maybe six.
My uncle who once tried to wrestle me to his bed when I was just giving him a peck on the cheek. What about my father's own friend who lured us to his house when his berry trees bent under the weigh of their ripened fruits. And oh, my fourth grade teacher who touched my nascent breasts. They all must pay.
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