Eve pulls a gun, drops it, then sits on the bed to confess: she thinks about Villanelle constantly—her eyes, her mouth, what shampoo she uses, what she eats for breakfast, what she feels when she kills someone. “I think about you, too,” Villanelle says, jolting Eve by admitting her own sexual obsession. When Eve asks her what she wants, her reply is slippery and ironic but at least partially honest. “Normal stuff,” Villanelle says. “Nice life. Cool flat. Fun job. Someone to watch movies with.”
Completo, en el New Yorker de aquí.
