Vivienne stared at André like she wanted to strangle him with the fork on the tray. Her hands twitched. Her chest still felt heavy, but now it was rage. Pure rage. He was staring at her again, that same heavy, serious look. His eyes lingered on her face like he could peel her apart, layer by layer, and see what she was hiding.
Inside her head she screamed: Why the fuck is he looking at me like that? It makes me want to pluck his eyeballs out and fry them in butter. Stop staring at me like I'm some fragile flower in winter, you bastard. I'm sure you've seen a woman cry before, so why the fuck are you acting like it's the first time? Do you want a medal for staring? A certificate? Should I clap?
Her nails dug into her palms under the blanket. Her teeth clenched so hard she almost broke them. On the outside she forced a sweet, trembling smile, but her brain was foaming.
