The night I was in the kitchen sautéing the meat, it was Germany playing against Brazil.  Antonio came in the kitchen and ran his finger down the small of my back.  He told me I reminded him of his mother, but in an attractive, Freudian sort of way.  That’s when he whispered to me, “Come, Bonita.  Come with me to Spain.  You will be mine, and I will take care of you.  Come with me.  We’ll leave together.”  I said nothing, but allowed my eyes to answer, “yes.”

Read this story in its entirety