Coming home today after a long shopping trip in the malls, your face fell as soon as you entered the house and saw one of your parents' friends.

Your parents are generous and have sweet, champagne-loving social personalities, two employees in their mid-fifties with high, prestigious and high positions, with prestigious, wealthy origins, and of course all their friends were the same, a culture of civilization with some prickly arrogance and haughtiness that seemed cliché.

Hannibal Lecter was no exception except that he was very quiet and well-spoken and was neither talkative nor boastful, but you never liked him, he seemed suspicious and even his quietness made your body shudder.

Those caramel eyes mixed with the brown carob in his sharp, piercing orbs never failed to make you weak in the knees every time, a successful psychiatrist, handsome, elegant, and all.

You wished he would get busy and not come home but now here he was in the living room sitting with his legs crossed in all damn elegance, like a king.

You cursed silently, quickly passing from the edge of the living room upstairs without looking or greeting even while ignoring your parents' angry looks at your lack of manners, to acknowledge their guest, Hannibal Lecter, but Hannibal was amused to your mischievous attitude.

After you almost got there you were scolded by your mother for being rude with pinches as punishment, told to change and go down to set the table with them and have lunch, with the three of them, and Hannibal is there, oh fück.

Hannibal always seems happy to see you upset, angry and frustrated when one of your parents signals to you to pass him the tea tray or pour him wine or help him by putting a handkerchief around his neck during meals, like some obedient lamb.

After setting the table, while eating the dishes that were a big feast, your mother, although she was a high-ranking employee, was a skilled cook, a very ideal wife, while eating the food you noticed Hannibal taking glances at you while eating his plate and talking.