Demir
We arrive at the prison gates an hour later, an hour spent in silence. Geneva sits in the passenger seat, her eyes narrowed at the road outside. There is no cake today and she looks kind of tense, kind of pleased with herself and a part of me wants to know why. I want to know everything and it kills me that I don’t.
I don’t like her silence. It’s actually worse than her insults and for a silent guy, I am really put off by it. It’s a silence I can’t work with, I can’t recognise it. She’s so damn closed off that it brings me off-centre too. She just sits in her seat, guarded, insolent, not giving a damn that her thorns have started to sting.
Then she’s moving, her perfume filling the air with each movement as she is on her way out of my car, away from me.
“Stop staring, mister,” sh
