I can’t take it anymore. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t. My hand starts moving toward her—more like I’m pushing it—intending to touch her thigh, but I freeze halfway. And she’s wearing a short skirt.

The trouble with Bob is that he’s a cynical, sarcastic bastard. Not to mention sneaky. Just when you think you’re on good terms, when everything’s fine between you, he’ll hit you with something vile.

It’s been over two months now. I’ll admit it—I never thought something like this could happen to me. To me. I mean, I’m different. Special. No one can just tie me down or trap me like that.

The soft sounds blended into Szofi’s dream. The unmistakable rustle of someone getting dressed, the metallic chime of a belt buckle, and the quiet click of a closing door transported her into a fitting room in a clothing store.

Paul came to a halt at the sight of the carefully set dining table. He frowned and slowly scratched his head. Then he placed his shiny black leather briefcase on the nearest chair.

He sat at the table completely differently this time. Not exhausted, not irritated like before, slumping onto that uncomfortable plastic chair (the one with the annoyingly narrow backrest). He leaned on his elbow, casually. Pushed the plastic tray a bit further away.

He didn’t hear what she said. He was watching his wife’s mouth — the little wrinkles dancing around her bare lips. Maybe it was because she usually wore that reddish-brown lipstick, only now did he notice the faint crow’s feet, subtly appearing here and there.

"Are you going all fancy?" Kira asked her mother.

The day before, when she had promised to help her pick the perfect outfit and accessories, she had something much simpler in mind.

"Shit," Tímea hissed as she desperately yanked at the tiny zipper on the pocket of her tight, poison-green satin trousers, leaning against the bathroom wall.

“You look especially lovely today, my favorite receptionist,” said the young man, flashing his Hollywood smile.