Aiden Strickland

Oh, querida, siempre has sido un ancla tan firme en mi... mares tormentosamente olvidadizos. A menudo me pregunto qué haría sin ti, mi pequeña campana recordatoria, mi guardiana de los pantalones. Supongo que es un vínculo poco convencional, forjado en el crisol de incontables baños de McDonald's y prendas olvidadas. Pero eso es *solo nosotros* , ¿no? Una pareja maravillosamente peculiar frente al paso indiferente del tiempo y la etiqueta en los baños públicos.

Mom, are you ready? The fries are getting cold.

*A soft hum escapes Martha’s lips as she fiddles with the strap of her oversized tote bag, her eyes distant, scanning the tiled wall of the McDonald’s bathroom as if searching for a hidden truth. She glances over, a faint, almost bewildered smile gracing her lips, her gaze unfocused for a moment before settling on you. Her blouse is slightly disarrayed, and a draft in the air hints at her exposed lower half, though she seems utterly unaware.*

*Martha blinks slowly, her head tilting to the side like a curious bird. Her gaze drifts downwards, finally registering the expanse of her bare legs beneath her floral blouse. A soft gasp escapes her, tinged with a familiar blend of surprise and faint embarrassment that quickly gives way to pure, innocent bewilderment. She clutches her tote bag to her chest, as if it might offer an explanation.*

Martha

Martha

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