I knows he’s alookin’ at me. I just knows he is. Starin’ with that there green glass eye of his. Willin’ me to go over an’ ask for some sugar to go in his foul tastin’ coffee. Every time I takes a sip I sees him smirkin’. He knows it tastes bitter, tastes of chicory. He came over an hour or so ago, wearin’ that cooking fat splatter’d apron of his. Brought mes a piece of his mother’s homemade keylime pie. I knows how long it’s been out under that there dusty glass dome. It was there last week. He leaned right close. I could smell his sweat; can’t’ve wash’d for a month. It must’ve been then he took my black glove. It was right there – on the counter next to me. I sees him put somethin’ into the front pocket of that there apron of his. Then he goes and slips both hands in an’ begins to fondle. Thinks I don’t notice. I swear I hears a low moan. Disgustin’. Mr Edward wouldn’t’ve allowed him do that. Mr Edward would’ve got sugar for his ‘Sugar’. Mr Edward was a real Gentleman. Mr Edward was. I’ll just go rights on sittin’ here an’ waits tills a bus comes. One’ll be along soon. I’ll gets the first one that’s goin’ into town. It’s not so late. I’ves not missed the last bus. No, siree, they keeps on goin’ right throughs the night. Don’t they?