I don't think they care though. Mr. Chalmers said he had people that take care of all their bills and stuff. I don't think any of them even look at th...ngs like this." I want to be mad at you, Kenny, but then you make it so hard to be mad when you let me boss you around like this. I know you don't like me acting like this, so why do you let me?" Because I like you. I know you're worried. I wish I knew what to say to make you feel better, but I only know that Mr. Parsons seems to like your mother. After about two weeks of this --not really being a patient person when it came to these things-- she had just about given up. Gazing at a screen of unopened messages, she decided to click on one last email: "Hey, Let's Talk." That simple message opened to a profile page of a decidedly attractive man: swarthy complexion, dimpled and squared jaw, shaved head, thick and dark brows hovering over light brown eyes. The caption under the picture: "This is my brother. He got all the ugly genes." That. I shoved some stuff in a couple of plastic bags and carried them inside -- that got me through the lobby; I watched her punch for the elevator and made my way to the stairs -- there were only three floors. In the stairwell, I dropped the hoodie and shoved it in another bag, but kept the cap; I waited until she came out of the elevator on the second floor and turned down the hall toward her apartment (I HOPED it was her apartment!) before coming out of the stairwell, then I walked the hall. And if you can let your body respond, even enjoy itself, what is the harm in that? And you married women: your husbands cannot blame you for anything that happens. They could not protect you from this, and in any event there will be no reason, no way, for them to ever find out what you did or did not do here. We will never speak of this, the men r****g us will not speak of it. One day it will be as if it never happened. So try to enjoy if you can, and be ready to forget as soon as this is.