CHAPTER 6
Sunday, January 23–Saturday, January 29
Salander took the elevator from the garage to the third floor, the uppermost floor
occupied by Milton Security in the office building near Slussen. She opened the
elevator door with a card key that she had pirated several years earlier. She
automatically glanced at her watch as she stepped into the unlit corridor. Sunday,
3:10 a.m. The night watchman would be sitting at the alarm station on the second
floor, a long way from the elevator shaft, and she knew that she would almost
certainly have this floor to herself.
She was, as always, astonished that a security company had such basic lapses in its
own operations.
Not much had changed on the third floor in the year that had passed. She began by
visiting her old office, a cubicle behind a glass wall in the corridor where Armansky
had installed her. The door was unlocked. Absolutely nothing had changed, except
that someone had set a cardboard box of wastepaper inside the door: the desk, the
office chair, the wastepaper basket, one (empty) bookshelf, and an obsolete Dell PC
with a pitifully small hard drive.
Salander could see nothing to suggest that Armansky had turned the room over to
anyone else. She took this to be a good sign, but she knew that it did not mean
much. It was space that could hardly be put to any sensible use.
Salander closed the door and strolled the length of the corridor, making sure that
there was no night owl in any of the offices. She stopped at the coffee machine and
pressed the button for a cup of cappuccino, then opened the door to Armansky’s
office with her pirated card key.
His office was, as always, irritatingly tidy. She made a brisk tour of inspection and
studied the bookshelf before sitting down at his desk and switching on his
computer.
She fished out a CD from the inside pocket of her jacket and pushed it into the
hard drive, then started a programme called Asphyxia 1.3. She had written it herself,
and its only function was to upgrade Internet Explorer on Armansky’s computer to
a more modern version. The procedure took about five minutes.
When she was done, she ejected the CD and rebooted the computer with the new
version of Internet Explorer. The programme looked and behaved exactly like the
original version, but it was a tiny bit larger and a microsecond slower. All
installations were identical to the original, including the install date. There would
be no trace of the new file.
She typed in an FTP address for a server in Holland and got a command screen. She
clicked copy, wrote the name Armansky/MiltSec and clicked OK. The computer
instantly began copying Armansky’s hard drive to the server in Holland. A clock
indicated that the process would take thirty-four minutes.
While the transfer was in progress, she took the spare key to Armansky’s desk from
a pot on the bookshelf and spent the next half hour bringing herself up to date on
the files Armansky kept in his top right-hand desk drawer: his crucial, current jobs.
When the computer dinged as a sign that the transfer was complete, she put the
files back in the order that she had found them.
Then she shut down the computer and switched off the desk lamp, taking the
empty cappuccino cup with her. She left the Milton Security building the same way
she had come. It was 4:12 a.m.
She walked home and sat down at her PowerBook and logged on to the server in
Holland, where she started a copy of Asphyxia 1.3. A window opened asking for the
name of the hard drive. She had forty different options and scrolled down. She
passed the hard drive for NilsEBjurman, which she usually glanced through every
other month. She paused for a second at MikBlom/laptop and MikBlom/Office. She
had not clicked on those icons for more than a year, and she wondered vaguely
whether to delete them. But she then decided as a matter of principle to hang on
to them—since she had gone to the trouble of hacking into a computer it would be
stupid to delete the information and maybe one day have to do the whole
procedure all over again. The same was true for an icon called Wennerström which
she had not opened in a long time. The man of that name was dead. The icon
Armansky/MiltSec, the last one created, was at the bottom of the list.
She could have cloned his hard drive earlier, but she had never bothered to because
she worked at Milton and could easily retrieve any information that Armansky
wanted to keep hidden from the rest of the world. Her trespassing in his computer
was not malicious: she just wanted to know what the company was working on, to
see the lay of the land. She clicked and a folder immediately opened with a new
icon called ArmanskyHD. She tried out whether she could access the hard drive and
checked that all the files were in place.
She read through Armansky’s reports, financial statements, and email until 7:00 a.m.
Finally she crawled into bed and slept until 12:30 in the afternoon.
On the last Friday in January Millennium’s annual board meeting took place in the
presence of the company’s bookkeeper, an outside auditor, and the four partners:
Berger (30 percent), Blomkvist (20 percent), Malm (20 percent), and Harriet Vanger
(30 percent). Eriksson was there as the representative of the staff and the staff
committee, and the chair of the union at the magazine. The union consisted of
Eriksson, Lotta Karim, Cortez, Nilsson, and marketing chief Sonny Magnusson. It
was Eriksson’s first board meeting.
The meeting began at 4:00 and lasted an hour. Much of the time was spent on the
financials and the audit report. Clearly Millennium was on a solid footing, very
different from the crisis in which the company had been mired two years earlier.
The auditors reported a profit of 2.1 million kronor, of which roughly 1 million was
down to Blomkvist’s book about the Wennerström affair.
Berger proposed, and it was agreed, that 1 million be set aside as a fund against
future crises; that 250,000 kronor be reserved for capital investments, such as new
computers and other equipment, and repairs at the editorial offices; and that
300,000 kronor be earmarked for salary increases and to allow them to offer Cortez
a full-time contract. Of the balance, a dividend of 50,000 kronor was proposed for
each partner, and 100,000 kronor to be divided equally among the four employees
regardless of whether they worked full-or part-time. Magnusson was to receive no
bonus. His contract gave him a commission on the ads he sold, and periodically
these made him the highest paid of all the staff. These proposals were adopted
unanimously.
Blomkvist proposed that the freelance budget be reduced in favour of an additional
part-time reporter. Blomkvist had Svensson in mind; he would then be able to use
Millennium as a base for his freelance writing and later, if it all worked out, be
hired full-time. The proposal met with resistance from Berger on the grounds that
the magazine could not thrive without access to a large number of freelance
articles. She was supported by Harriet Vanger; Malm abstained. It was decided that
the freelance budget would not be touched, but it would be investigated whether
adjustments of other expenses might be made. Everyone wanted Svensson on the
staff, at the very least as a part-time contributor.
There followed a brief discussion about future direction and development plans;
Berger was reelected as chair of the board for the coming year; and then the
meeting was adjourned.
Eriksson had said not a word. She was content at the prospect that she and her
colleagues would get a bonus of 25,000 kronor, more than a month’s salary.
At the close of the board meeting, Berger called for a partners’ meeting. Berger,
Blomkvist, Malm, and Harriet Vanger remained while the others left the conference
room. Berger declared the meeting open. “There is only one item on the agenda,”
she said. “Harriet, according to the agreement we made with Henrik, his part
ownership was to last for two years. The agreement is about to expire. We have to
decide what is going to happen with your—or rather, Henrik’s—interest in
Millennium.”
“We all know that my uncle’s investment was an impulsive gesture triggered by a
most unusual situation,” Harriet said. “That situation no longer exists. What do you
propose?”
Malm squirmed with annoyance. He was the only one in the room who did not
know what that “unusual situation” was. Blomkvist and Berger had to keep the
story from him. Berger had told him only that it was a matter so personal involving
Blomkvist that he would never under any circumstances discuss it. Malm was
smart enough to realize that Blomkvist’s silence had something to do with
Hedestad and Harriet Vanger. He also knew that he didn’t need all the details to be
able to make a decision, and he had enough respect for Blomkvist not to make an
issue of it.
“The three of us have discussed the matter and we have arrived at a decision,”
Berger said. She looked Harriet in the eye. “But before we explain our reasoning we
would like to know what you think.”
Harriet Vanger glanced at them in turn. Her gaze lingered on Blomkvist, but she
could not read anything from their expressions.
“If you want to buy the family out it will cost around three million kronor plus
interest. Can you afford to buy us out?” she asked mildly.
“Yes, we can,” Blomkvist said with a smile.
He had been paid five million kronor by Henrik Vanger for the work he had done
for the old industrial tycoon. Part of that work, ironically, had been to find out
what had happened to Harriet, his niece.
“In that case, the decision is in your hands,” Harriet said. “The agreement stipulates
that you can cancel the Vanger shareholding as of today. I would never have
written a contract as sloppy as the one Henrik signed.”
“We can buy you out if we have to,” Berger said. “But the real question is what you
want to do. You’re the CEO of a substantial industrial concern—two concerns,
actually. Our annual budget might correspond to what you turn over during a
coffee break. Why would you give your time to a business as marginal as
Millennium?”
Harriet Vanger looked calmly at the chair of the board, saying nothing for a long
moment. Then she turned to Blomkvist and replied:
“I’ve been the owner of something or other since the day I was born. And I spend
my days running a corporation that has more intrigues than a four-hundred-page
romance novel. When I first joined your board it was to fulfil obligations that I
could not neglect. But you know what? During the past eighteen months I’ve
realized that I’m having more fun on this board than on all the others put
together.”
Blomkvist absorbed this thoughtfully. Vanger now turned to Malm.
“The problems you face at Millennium are small and manageable. Naturally the
company wants to operate at a profit—that’s a given. But all of you have another
goal—you want to achieve something.”
She took a sip from her glass of water and fixed her eyes on Berger.
“Exactly what that something is remains a bit unclear to me. The objective is hazy.
You aren’t a political party or a special-interest group. You have no loyalties to
consider except your own. But you pinpoint flaws in society, and you don’t mind
entering into battles with public figures. Often you want to change things and
make a real difference. You all pretend to be cynics and nihilists, but it’s your own
morality that steers the magazine, and several times I’ve noticed that it’s quite a
special sort of morality. I don’t know what to call it, except to say that Millennium
has a soul. This is the only board I’m proud to be a part of.”
She fell silent for so long that Berger had to laugh.
“That sounds good. But you still haven’t answered the question.”
“This has been some of the wackiest, most absurd stuff I’ve ever been involved
with, but I enjoy your company and I’ve had a great time. If you want me to stay
on I gladly will.”
“OK,” Malm said. “We’ve been back and forth and we’re all agreed. We’ll buy you
out.”
Vanger’s eyes widened. “You want to get rid of me?”
“When we signed the contract we had our heads on the block waiting for the axe.
We had no choice. From the start we were counting the days until we could buy
out your uncle.”
Berger opened a file, laid some papers on the table, and pushed them over to
Vanger, together with a cheque for exactly the sum due. Vanger read through the
papers and without a word she signed them.
“All right, then,” Berger said. “That was fairly painless. I want to put on record our
gratitude to Henrik Vanger for all he did for Millennium. I hope you will convey
this to him.”
“I will,” Harriet Vanger said in a neutral tone, betraying nothing of what she felt.
She was both hurt and deeply disappointed that they had let her say that she
wanted to stay and then had simply kicked her out.
“And now let me see if I can interest you in a completely different contract,” Berger
said.
She took out another set of papers and slid them across the table.
“We were wondering if you personally had any interest in being a partner at
Millennium. The price would be the same as the sum you’ve just received. The
agreement has no time limits or exception clauses. You would be a full partner
with the same responsibilities as the rest of us.”
Vanger raised her eyebrows. “Why this roundabout process?”
“It had to be done sooner or later,” Malm said. “We could have renewed the old
agreement a year at a time or until the board had an argument and put you out.
But it was always a contract that would have to be dissolved.”
Harriet leaned on her elbow and gave him a searching glance. She looked at
Blomkvist and then at Berger.
“We signed our agreement with Henrik when we were in financial straits,” Berger
said. “We’re offering you this agreement because we want to. And unlike the old
one, it won’t let us boot you out so easily in the future.”
“That’s a very big difference for us,” Blomkvist said in a low voice, and that was his
only contribution to the discussion.
“The fact is that we believe you add something to Millennium besides the financial
underpinning implied by the name of Vanger,” Berger said.
“You’re smart and sensible and you come up with constructive solutions. Until now
you’ve kept a low profile, almost like a guest visiting us once a quarter, but you
represent for this board a stability and direction that we’ve never had before. You
know business. Once you asked if you could trust me, and I wondered the same
thing about you. By now we both know the answer. I like you and I trust you—we
all do. We don’t want you to be a part of us by way of some complicated legal
mumbo jumbo. We want you as a partner and a real shareholder.”
Harriet reached for the contract and spent five minutes reading through it. Finally
she looked up.
“And all three of you are agreed?” she said.
Three heads nodded. Vanger lifted her pen and signed. She shoved the cheque back
across the table, and Blomkvist tore it up.
The partners of Millennium had dinner together at Samir’s Cauldron on
Tavastgatan. It was a quiet party—to celebrate the new arrangement—with good
wine and couscous with lamb. The conversation was relaxed, and Vanger was
noticeably dazed. It felt a little like an uncomfortable first date: something is going
to happen, but no-one knows exactly what it might be.
Vanger had to leave at 7:30. She excused herself by saying that she had to go to her
hotel and get an early night. Berger was heading home to her husband and walked
with her some of the way. They parted at Slussen. Blomkvist and Malm stayed on
for a while before Malm excused himself and said that he too had to get home.
Vanger took a taxi to the Sheraton and went straight to her room on the eighth
floor. She got undressed and had a bath and put on the hotel’s robe. Then she sat at
the window and looked out towards Riddarholmen. She took a pack of Dunhills
from her bag. She smoked three or four cigarettes a day, so few that she could
consider herself a nonsmoker and still enjoy it without a guilty conscience.
At 9:00 there was a knock at the door. She opened it and let Blomkvist in.
“You scoundrel,” she said.
He smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“I really thought you guys were going to kick me out.”
“We never would have done it like that. Do you understand why we wanted to
rewrite the contract?”
“Of course. It makes perfect sense.”
Blomkvist opened her robe and put a hand on her breast, caressing it cautiously.
“You scoundrel,” she said again.
Salander stopped at the door with a nameplate that said WU. She had seen a light
from the street, and now she could hear music coming from inside. So Miriam Wu
still lived here in the studio apartment on Tomtebogatan near St. Eriksplan. It was
Friday evening, and Salander had half hoped that Mimmi would be out having fun
somewhere. The only questions that remained to be answered were whether
Mimmi still wanted to have anything to do with her and whether she was alone
and available.
She rang the bell.
Mimmi opened the door and her eyebrows lifted in surprise. Then she leaned
against the doorjamb and put her hand on her hip.
“Salander. I thought you were dead or something.”
“Or something.”
“What do you want?”
“There are many answers to that question.”
Miriam Wu looked around the stairwell before she again fixed her eyes on Salander.
“Try one.”
“Well, I just wanted to see whether you’re still single and might want some
company tonight.”
Mimmi looked astonished for a few seconds and then laughed out loud.
“I know only one person who would even dream of ringing my bell after a year and
a half’s silence to ask me if I wanted to fuck.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
Mimmi stopped laughing. She was quiet for a few seconds.
“Lisbeth … Jesus, you’re serious.”
Salander waited.
Finally Mimmi sighed and opened the door wide.
“Come on, then. I can at least offer you a coffee.”
Salander followed her in and sat on one of two stools by a small table in the hall.
The apartment was about 250 square feet: one cramped room and a hall. The
kitchen was little more than a niche for cooking in a corner of the hall. Mimmi had
fixed a hose to the sink from the bathroom.
Mimmi’s mother was from Hong Kong, her father from Boden. Salander knew that
her parents lived in Paris. Mimmi was studying sociology in Stockholm, and she had
an older sister studying anthropology in the States. Her mother’s genes were visible
in Mimmi’s raven black hair, cut short, and her slightly Asian features. Her father
had given her the clear blue eyes. She had a wide mouth and dimples that did not
come from either of her parents.
Mimmi was thirty-one. She liked to dress up in leather and go to clubs where they
did performance art—sometimes she appeared in the shows. Salander had not been
to a club since she was sixteen.
Besides her studies, Mimmi had a job one day a week as a sales clerk at Domino
Fashion on a street off Sveavägen. Customers desperate for outfits such as a rubber
nurse’s uniform or black leather witch’s garb frequented Domino, which both
designed and manufactured the clothes. Mimmi was part owner of the boutique
with some girlfriends, and the shop provided a modest supplement to her student
loan of a few thousand kronor each month. Salander had first seen Mimmi when
she performed in a show at the Gay Pride Festival a couple of years before and then
ran into her in a beer tent later that night. Mimmi had been dressed in an odd
lemon yellow plastic dress that revealed more than it concealed. Salander saw
nothing erotic about the outfit, but she had been drunk enough to suddenly want
to pick up a girl dressed like a lemon. To Salander’s great surprise the citrus fruit
had taken one look at her, laughed out loud, kissed her without embarrassment,
and said You’re the one I want. They had gone back to Salander’s place and had sex
all night long.
“I am what I am,” Salander said. “I ran away from everything and everybody. I
should have said goodbye.”
“I thought something had happened to you. Not that we had been in touch that
much in the last months you were here.”
“I was busy.”
“You’re such a mystery. You never talk about yourself. I don’t even know where you
work or who I could have called when you didn’t answer your mobile.”
“I’m not working anywhere right now, and besides, you’re just like me. You wanted
sex but you weren’t particularly interested in a relationship. Or were you?”
“That’s true,” Mimmi said at last.
“And it was the same with me. I never made any promises.”
“You’ve changed,” Mimmi said.
“Not a lot.”
“You look older. More mature. You have different clothes. And you’ve stuffed your
bra with something.”
Salander said nothing. Mimmi had seen her naked—of course she would notice the
change. In the end she lowered her eyes and mumbled, “I had a boob job.”
“What did you say?”
Salander looked up and raised her voice, unaware that it had taken on a defiant
tone.
“I went to a clinic in Italy and had breast implants. That’s why I disappeared. Then I
just kept on travelling. Now I’m back.”
“Are you joking?”
Salander looked at Mimmi, expressionless.
“Stupid of me. You never joke about anything, Mr. Spock.”
“I’m not going to apologize. I’m just being honest. If you want me to leave, just say
the word.”
Mimmi laughed out loud. “Well, I certainly don’t want you to leave without letting
me see how they look. Please.”
“I’ve always liked having sex with you, Mimmi. You didn’t give a damn what sort of
work I did, and if I was busy you found somebody else.”
Mimmi nodded. When she was seventeen, after a number of fumbling attempts, she
was finally initiated into the mysteries of sex at a party organized in Göteborg by
the Swedish Federation for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Rights. She had
never considered any other lifestyle after that. Once when she was twenty-three
she had tried having sex with a man. She mechanically did everything she was
expected to do, but it was not enjoyable. She also belonged to the minority within
the minority who were not interested in marriage or fidelity or cosy evenings at
home.
“I’ve been home for a few weeks. I needed to know if I had to go out and pick
somebody up or if you’re still interested.”
Mimmi bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“I was thinking of studying tonight.”
She unbuttoned the top button of Lisbeth’s blouse.
“But what the hell…”
She kissed her again and kept unbuttoning.
“I just have to see this.”
She kissed her again.
“Welcome back.”
• • •
Harriet Vanger fell asleep around 2:00 a.m. Blomkvist lay awake listening to her
breathing. After a while he got up and filched a Dunhill from the pack in her
handbag. He sat in a chair next to the bed and looked at her.
He had not planned to become Harriet Vanger’s lover. Far from it. After his time in
Hedestad he wanted more than anything to keep the whole Vanger family at arm’s
length. He had seen Harriet at board meetings and kept his distance. They knew
each other’s secrets, but apart from Harriet Vanger’s role on Millennium’s board,
their dealings were at an end.
During the Whitsuntide vacation the year before, Blomkvist had gone to his cabin
in Sandhamn for the first time in several months, to have some peace and quiet
and sit on the porch and read crime novels. On the Friday afternoon, he was on his
way to the kiosk to buy some cigarettes when he ran into Harriet. She had
apparently felt a need to get away from Hedestad herself and had booked a
weekend at the hotel in Sandhamn. She had not been there since she was a child.
She had been sixteen when she left Sweden and fifty-three when she came back. It
was Blomkvist who had tracked her down.
After their surprised greetings, Harriet had lapsed into an awkward silence.
Blomkvist knew her history, and she was aware that he had compromised his
principles in order to cover up the Vanger family’s horrific secrets. And in part he
had done it for her.
Blomkvist invited her to his cabin. He made coffee and they sat on the porch
outside for several hours, talking. It was the first time they had talked at length
since her return.
Blomkvist could not resist asking: “What did you do with the stuff in Martin’s
basement?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“I cleaned it up myself. I burned everything that would burn. I had the house torn
down. I couldn’t live there, and I couldn’t sell it and let someone else live there. For
me all its associations were with evil. I’m planning another house to take its place,
a small cabin.”
“Didn’t people raise their eyebrows when you had the house torn down? It was
quite luxurious and modern.”
She smiled. “Dirch Frode put about the story that there was so much damp in the
foundation that it would be more expensive to rebuild than to take it down.” Frode
was the family’s lawyer.
“How is Frode getting on?”
“He’s going to be seventy soon. I’m keeping him busy.”
They had lunch together, and Blomkvist realized that Harriet Vanger was sitting
there telling him the most intimate and private details about her life. When he
asked her why, she thought for a moment and said that there really was no-one
else in the whole world with whom she could be so open. Besides, it was hard not
to open her heart to a kid she had babysat all of forty years ago.
She had had sex with three men in her life. First her father and then her brother.
She had killed her father and run away from her brother. Somehow she had
survived and met a man with whom she had created a new life for herself.
“He was tender and loving. Dependable and honest. I was happy with him. We had
a wonderful twenty years together before he became ill.”
“You never remarried? Why not?”
She shrugged. “I was the mother of two children in Australia and the owner of a
big agricultural business. I could never get away for a romantic weekend. And I’ve
never missed sex.” They sat quiet for a while. “It’s late. I should be getting back to
the hotel.”
Blomkvist made no move to get up.
“Do you want to seduce me?”
“I do,” he said.
He stood up and took her hand, leading her into the cabin and up to the sleeping
loft. Suddenly she stopped him. “I don’t really know how. This is not something I do
every day.”
They spent the whole weekend together and then one night every three months
after the magazine’s board meetings. It was not a relationship that could be
sustained. She worked around the clock and was very often travelling, and every
other month she was in Australia. But she had come to value her occasional
rendezvous with Blomkvist.
Mimmi made coffee two hours later as Salander lay naked and sweaty on top of the
bedclothes. She smoked a cigarette and watched Mimmi through the doorway. She
envied Mimmi’s body. She was impressively muscled. She worked out at a gym
three evenings a week, one of them doing Thai boxing or some sort of karate shit,
and this had given her body an awesome shape.
She was just delicious. Not beautiful like a model, but genuinely attractive. She
loved to provoke and flirt. When she dressed up for a party she could get anyone
whatsoever interested in her. Salander did not understand why Mimmi cared about
a goose like her. But she was glad she did. Sex with Mimmi was so dramatically
liberating that Salander just relaxed and enjoyed it, taking what she wanted for
herself and giving in return.
Mimmi came back and put two mugs on a stool beside the bed. She crawled onto
the bed and leaned over to nibble at one of Salander’s nipples.
“They’ll do,” she said.
Salander said nothing. She looked at Mimmi’s breasts. Mimmi’s breasts were small
too, but they looked completely natural on her body.
“If I’m going to be honest, Lisbeth, you look fantastic.”
“That’s silly. My breasts don’t really make any difference one way or the other, but
at least I’ve got some now.”
“You’re so hung up about your body.”
“You’re one to talk, working out like an idiot.”
“I work out like an idiot because I like to work out. It’s a kick, almost as good as
sex. You ought to try it.”
“I do some boxing.”
“Bullshit—you boxed once a month max. And mostly because you got a buzz out of
smacking those snotty guys around. That’s not the same as working out to feel
good.”
Salander shrugged. Mimmi sat straddling her.
“Lisbeth, you’re so obsessed. You should know by now that I like having you in bed
not because of how you look but because of the way you act. I think you’re sexy as
hell.”
“You too. That’s why I kept coming back.”
“Not for love?” Mimmi said, pretending to be hurt.
Salander shook her head.
“Are you seeing somebody?”
Mimmi hesitated a moment before she nodded.
“Maybe. In a way. Possibly. It’s a little complicated.”
“I’m not snooping.”
“I know, but I don’t mind telling you. It’s someone at the university who’s a little
older than me. She’s been married twenty years, but her husband travels a lot, so
we get together when he’s not around. Suburbs, villa, all that. She’s a closet dyke.
It’s been going on since last autumn and it’s getting a bit boring. But she’s really
luscious. And then I hang out with the usual gang, of course.”
“I was just wondering whether I could come and see you again.”
“I’d really like to hear from you.”
“Even if I disappear for another six months?”
“Just keep in touch. I’d like to know if you’re dead or alive. And in any case I’ll
remember your birthday.”
“No strings?”
Mimmi sighed and smiled.
“You know, you’re a dyke I could imagine living with. You’d leave me alone when I
wanted to be left alone.”
Salander said nothing.
“Apart from the fact that you’re not really a dyke. You’re probably bisexual. But
most of all you’re sexual—you like sex and you don’t care about what gender. You’re
an entropic chaos factor.”
“I don’t know what I am,” Salander said. “But I’m in Stockholm now and pretty bad
at relationships. In fact, I don’t know one single person here. You’re the first person
I’ve talked to since I got home.”
Mimmi studied her with a serious expression.
“Do you really want to know people? You’re the most secretive and unapproachable
person I know. But your breasts really are luscious.” She put her fingers under one
nipple and stretched the skin. “They fit you. Not too big and not too small.”
Salander sighed with relief that the reviews were satisfactory.
“And they feel real.”
She squeezed the breast so hard that Salander gasped. They looked at each other.
Then Mimmi bent and gave Salander a deep kiss. Salander responded and threw her
arms around Mimmi. The coffee was left to get cold.
0 comments:
Post a Comment