In my arms, She was always Lolita. Light of my life, Fire of my loins, My sin, My soul, Lo-lee-ta. She was Lo, Plain Lo in the morning, standing four foot ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks, She was dolly in school, She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms, She was always Lolita. Were the words carefully etched onto the paper before him that laid on the cluttered desk, His jaw tightened as his sides burned with such passion for his little Shirley temple child.

That little creature he loved so tenderly, but as per usual, each rising morning and night with Charlotte so peacefully asleep in bed, the routine began. She would always creep out of room for her own usual routine, with that tired and groggy doe-eyed look to her. And he always watched, leaning back in his chair which creaked so subtly, his eyes carefully watching for that little devil child to open her door, his jaw tightening with anticipation.