I knew for certain that his given name is Seamus O'Brien, that he had never been to Sicily or even Italy, that he had been born n the bowels of Chicag... to Irish immigrant dock workers and that he spoke with a false Italian accent. He was a large man in a round sort of way and looked like he had wads of cotton wool stuffed between his lower mandible and his cheek and talked as if that were the case. His small eyes never seemed to miss a thing and glittered dangerously from his pudgy. The second time, there was some small wonder as to what to do about it. The third time, she lifted his hand to her thigh and sank back into her seat as her mother rattled on about whatever. It didn’t matter that her mother was talking. It didn’t matter that the hand trying to be felt through the layers of clothing was her father’s. When you could just lie back and feel warm as though you were wrapped in thick blankets shielded from a bitter night while your pussy dripped dew all over her. More

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