Female Whipping In Mainstream Films

Apples in the snow (first part)

Apples cooked with ginger, sweet scented, coated with a thin crust of caramelized sugar, fluffy and fragrant. I'm still hot, smoke in the white china cup with the handle so thin that the squeeze gently between thumb and forefinger, as if the stem of a tulip.
My grandmother gives me everything when I visit. I eat, my stomach fills portions of which are not used to the feeling of satiety. Snowing outside, in the kitchen of her grandmother's room for only a vague sense of impatience that teases me with a fringe of consciousness. I'm stuck here, away from it all, locked in a trap of affection and snow out of season. Waiting for snow to stop to put me in the car and go home, anxious glances at his watch and looks desolate in the direction of the window. Marco
be worried? Will fed the cat?
Outside there's always the darkest, the wind swirling snowflakes that seem to cotton balls are so big.
"Bela the me Putin! This is the the me Putin! "
The grandmother is in raptures, as always when I see it. I smile and play the first notes of Lisa casually with blue eyes. The cassette tape that we are listening to be least as old as me, the radio stretches and lengthens the notes of the song. The grandmother sings "Without the braids are not the same anymore," his voice changes when he speaks in Italian, loses its determination.
"You want more?"
I could, I should not, I will ruin the appetite for dinner, but his question is rhetorical. He has not yet finished formulating it that my cup is full again of white pulp, soft and fragrant. Berth to the nose as if it contains flower petals. The smell of apples, lemon zest, I love them, so I promise to find them with a spoon to eat them first.

Continued ...