That million-dollar smile (it would, of course, be in dollars, or euros, and never anything but).
She smiled, flicking her blonde hair over the edge of her thin shoulder and digging in like an Iowa farmer after a long day. Or a Russian peasant.
THIEF BY OLGA KLINGER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 25
The tomatoes hung limply from dark green vines, gleaming in the late summer afternoon, their sides changing from yellow to orange in the spirit of a wayward…