About an hour later, he arrived home to see his mother sitting in the living room. He placed his bag on the floor where the dining room table was and ...alked into the living room.“Hello son,” Karen greeted. “How was your day?”“Terrible, mom,” Danny answered.“Why?” Karen wondered.“One of my instructors had the nerve to ask me way too personal questions,” Danny replied. “She had the nerve to ask me about if I had any interest in anyone. She also had the nerve to bring up something about me looking. .if., you probably wouldn't...I mean...I don't want to assume...you know," she muttered. "Assume what?" I replied tentatively. She ducked her head. "I didn't want to assume just because you asked me out for a drink that you felt the same thing...that you wanted to...to...sleep with me," she finished, taking a deep breath. I didn't dare look at her, instead twisting the glass around and around on its coaster. The bulge in my trousers throbbed violently. She groaned and put her palm to her hot. My sister never cried very much, even during the funeral with dozens of bereaved relatives hardly able to stand they were so grief-stricken. She always had to be the emotional fortress-never wavering, always supporting, always the crutch for everybody else’s feelings and emotions. She never gave herself the chance to ever feel pain or sorrow. I actually enjoyed watching her cry, finally letting something out, born of her own grief and not someone else’s. I think I cried not for Stan, lord knows. At the start of the conversation, I had been taking notes on a little pad. By now, I was sitting there with my head propped up with my hands, rapt. My hair had dried into a light curl; a very feminine style, which I was sure, would look great on Andrea. I had wanted to tie it back, as it was getting in my eyes, but Charlie had refused to give me a bobble to do so, saying I'd better get used to it. I had gotten used to it. We talked and drank and laughed, swapping stories of girlfriends and.
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