There is a lot I could say. There are questions I should ask. I don’t, though. I think it best to keep my mouth shut. I do not trust myself to get t...is sort of conversation right. Instead, I try a different sort of communication: I take her hand and squeeze it. I must have done the right thing because she turns to me and smiles and pulls herself close to me. In that moment, I feel we have got out from under the cloud that the American, Tracy — or whatever her name was — has thrown over us.We. Her touch felt hot. Like she was branding me. "Mom? Is it wrong of me to say I liked it? That I want more? But, not just of dad, of you as well?' Hearing this my mother said nothing but bent forward and kissed my forehead, down across my nose, and coming to rest on my lips. I could feel the tip of het tongue gently tickling my upper lip. Gliding back and forth across it. At the same time I felt her hand draw the sheet down from my shoulders, over my breasts, down past my waist. My left hand. More

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