““You watch,” Elder Stark said, “she'll pick the federal marshall. Mustache, sidearm, badge—he has it all.” “Not the professional golfer?” “He wears pink slacks.” “He's rich, though. He owns a boat.” “It doesn't matter. These women out here want killers. They want menace.” The show was one of those real-life dating programs that we hadn't known existed until that night but had now seen three of and couldn't turn off. The women wore blue jeans slung low around their hip bones and kept glancing do...wn at their candy-colored toenails as they strolled along white beaches in floppy sandals, kicking up sand to display their playful natures, followed by panting nippy little dogs that they clapped at now and then to hurry up even though the dogs' tongues were hanging out. The men were suntanned brutes in pretty shirts, with dull, narrow eyes, blond hair peaked up with hair spray, and mouths that didn't quite open when they spoke or fully close again when they finished speaking.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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