She gave me that stare. The one where she

She gave me that stare. The one where she knows that she's in control. The one where I become completely vulnerable. The one where I give up on protesting. She'll get it anyway.

I choked back my emotions and tried to defy her eagle-eyes. It was no use; she knew my crushed soul. I caved and handed her the remote. Ice Truckers switched to Downton Abby.

I went to the kitchen to rustle up a beer & some nachos but got a Crystal Light & a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich instead. Then I tucked in to some knitting. I could feel her gaze

, judging me as I dropped a stitch. If I had my Corona, I could've knit better. I looked back over at her, secretly envious of the doiley she was crotcheting. I hate her. She

made me regret getting expelled from finishing school. I decided to level the odds the only way I knew how. Excusing myself from the crochet circle, I called in a favor

from Alfred, the sombre contract killer who passed his time at the roadside cafe. He was amenable, but he would not take money. Instead, he demanded that I pay him by spreading

This was not what the detective had expected when he opened the shoe box. This was almost to good. He knew it had to be a false trace of crumbs.

He tapped at the walls of the Gingerbread House, they crumbled. Plaster of Paris painted orange! This house was a sham, a mere confection! The Detective opened his noted book &

jotted a personal note. "In re: construction plans for mountain getaway. Scratch PoP as structural material. Nouveau, yes, but fragile. Go with log as originally, more reliable."