The woman on the floor looked at her.
The thick mother's face crumpled — not gradually, all at once, the face of a woman who has just heard her daughter scream her name from a cage and has understood that the next thing happening will be the price of that cage remaining closed.
Vekar stepped forward.
His fat fingers found the collar of her blouse.
And pulled.
The fabric tore with a sound like a scream.
The blouse ripping down the front, the buttons popping and flying across the room, the worn fabric parting to reveal the massive, heavy tits beneath — pale, sagging with the weight of age and motherhood, the dark areolas enormous and wide, the nipples thick and long and already stiffening in the cold air from the broken door.
Her skirt followed.
