I try to keep her in good spirits but she’s hardly focused on my words. “You okay?” I ask. “Cold…” she says, staring at nothing in particu...ar. “You gotta get those wet clothes off,” I say. “But do you have anything I can wear?” “Ummm…” I start to chuckle as I gather up a T-shirt, boxers, and athletic shorts from my dresser. I turn to her, offering the clothes up. She looks at them and starts to sarcastically cry. “Why did this night go so sour?” “Wow… Sorry I can’t be a good host to you.” “No,. He suddenly got a terrible sinking feeling, ‘Had she finally carried through with her threats to leave him? All the times she’d begged him to come home, all the missed dinner dates, movies, shows he’d failed to show up for leaving her alone. Had she finally left him the same way?’ As he walked out of the kitchen into the dining room he saw in the moonlight the table was completely clear of any dishes, roses, or burnt out candles, all he found was a single note on the stationary she loved neatly. .. I've never been here since..." Margaret knew the story, but not the exact location. Sitting there in the car park the memories became unbearable. I sensed that other motorists were noticing, watching us, and I didn't want their pity, their intrusion. I dried my eyes as best I could, started the car and drove carefully away. But there was the turning, the lane where Mark had taken us. In the midst of gloom, remembering young Mark rang like a clear little bell of goodness in my soul. Suddenly. "They're FUCKING great, aren't they, Marty? Not just great, but FUCKING great." Yeah, mom. Your tits are really fucking great. Your nipples... they're so big too," Marty said, his eyes never leaving her chest and getting the hang of using the words he never thought he could, and would use with his mother present."Hmm hmm..." Stephanie hummed affirmatively. "My nipples are stiff because I like to see you staring at them. Knowing that my own son is looking at my fat fucking nipples is making them.