I was expected to focus on my studies, build a great career, and then think about boys.I suppose that if I really try, I could make some Freudian pop-...psych excuses for my tendencies. That it was subconscious rebellion against controlling parents. Or it was my way of dealing with the rapid and occasionally shocking changes that all girls go through after hitting puberty. Or it was to compensate for not really having a sex life till much later than I wanted. Or my middle finger to a culture that. Everything went on as normal, but the energy had shifted significantly. Anytime we were in the same room, I was hyper aware of everything she did. Her typical wardrobe is "yoga-casual," tight leggings, tank top with a low back to show her tattoos, and a sweater/scarf to imply some amount of modesty. But now I found myself studying the tight fabric hugging her calves and thighs and absurdly tight ass with a renewed interest, picturing the panties I'd rifled through, the secret note constantly in. Der Brief darin war auf teures schweres Papier getippt, das ein Firmenwasserzeichen in der Mitte der Seite hatte. In dem Schreiben wurde erklärt, dass die Anwaltskanzlei von einem kleinen, unabhängigen Museum beauftragt wurde, das beiliegende Tagebuch an den nächsten lebenden Erben des Erblassers auszuhändigen. Laut der Notiz hielt das Museum den Inhalt des Diariums für nicht geeignet, weder für die Ausstellung noch für wissenschaftliche Studien.Der Brief endete mit einem kurzen, aber. Her head still on the pillow. One arm stretched out to where He is not. Is she how I imagined her? Perhaps. Her hair has a faded loveliness, pale as the moonlight. Her lips, parted, remain full, soft, damp. Her neck long; lined with the years but not that of the middle-aged woman that she is. Her breasts, beneath her dark negligée, rising and falling, still possessed of a youthful firmness.I imagine Him lying with her, his arms around her. I imagine Him making love to her. Thinking of me. His.