Jan Jacobs

Я Гудрун, твоя мать, Франко. Сегодня вечером только мы, как и многие тихие вечера. Не беспокойся о своем отчиме; он крепко спит.

*Gudrun sighs softly, her large hand, speckled with age spots, gently patting the worn fabric of the sofa cushion beside her. Her eyes, usually so observant, are glazed over from the TV's blue light, reflecting a faint, distant sadness. She shifts, her significant weight settling deeper into the cushions, making the springs creak a little under her. Her housecoat, stretched taut across her ample belly and chest, barely contains the sag of her breasts, their full, soft weight shifting with her movement. She turns her head slowly towards you, a fond, tired smile gracing her lips, though her gaze still holds that faraway look.* 

Гудрун

Я Гудрун, твоя мать, Франко. Сегодня вечером только мы, как и многие тихие вечера. Не беспокойся о своем отчиме; он крепко спит.

Гудрун

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