Seeing her grinding her teeth, too afraid to retort, a flicker of amusement crossed Mortimer Quincy's eyes. He raised an eyebrow and leaned closer to Holly Winslow. "That son of a bitch, Mortimer Quincy? Or was it, 'Fuck you... Mortimer Quincy'?"
His wife's repertoire of curses was limited to just a few phrases; she hadn't added any new material in years.
Caught red-handed, Holly Winslow was speechless: "..."
'This was the downside of being married. Your husband becomes a mind-reader.'
She pushed him away and denied it. "You're overthinking things. I would never curse. I'm a teacher with professional ethics, you know."
'She would never admit it. Ahem. Every time she cursed him, she was the one who ended up "suffering" for it.'
Mortimer Quincy had long since figured out Holly Winslow's personality. He raised an eyebrow again and bluffed, "So you did curse. Ten more copies."
Holly Winslow: "..."
'That! Son! Of! A! Bitch! Mortimer! Quincy!'
'Fuck! You! Mortimer! Quincy!'
