Nervously, Buttercup told him."Fuck! What sort of fucking ponced-up name is that? And what about your friend. What're you called?" Tracey." Fuck me! W... got a right pair of fucking wierdies here. At least 'buttercup' means something. But when in the name of fuck did 'tracey' ever fucking mean anything. You're both a couple of fucking immigrants, ain't you? Well, you'd better pull your fucking socks up, Buttercup sweetie, (if you were ever allowed to wear the fuckers) or you're out. There're. But he deigned to give me a quick peck on the lips. He pulled the door open and climbed in. I stepped aside as he pulled out and roared noisily away. I waved, but he was already talking on his phone."See ya," I muttered to myself. I made a mental note to get my husband's muffler fixed. Right after I got him fixed.As the sound of his car faded the barista came hustling out the door with another cup in his hand."Damn, I missed him," he said."'S'okay, I gave him mine. Same drink, right?" I said,. More

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