Translator

The “translator” is here. Lican isn’t. The translator’s name is Angelica. She speaks good English and I invited her up into my room. She’s tiny compared to Lican, but but she wiggles. She does a lot of looking at me sideways, turning her eyes but not her face. She must have practiced it in a mirror. It does look good, and it’s interesting that she wants to look hot.

What she’s wearing could be hot, or it could be “hot day in a small town and I don’t give a fuck how I look”: a little torn denim skirt and a Chilli Peppers tee-shirt.

Her thighs are too thick for her to be a girl in a magazine, but I can’t help thinking how they’d feel around me. And little fuck me sandals. None of that’s uniform, but no matter how sexy she may be, I’m sure she’s government.

She’s using my bathroom. She’s been far too long so she’s probably searching, and texting someone. News as it comes.

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