"My name isn't Peter and I'm not your son!" I said to her but my eyes were firmly focused between her legs."Of course you're Peter and you have always...fucked me, every day sometimes."I realised now the woman was not at all with it and it wasn't sleepwalking, for she was coherent and mobile. Then it struck me, she was suffering from dementia and was reliving her past. Her son Peter must have been having it off with his mother. Here she was thinking I am Peter and offering herself to me.I decided. "I know you said one, but you didn't specify glass or jug!" I laugh and playfully roll my eyes at him and hope that I can make it home upright tonight. Time flies by as we chat about what we've been working on this week, catching up on the office gossip we've missed out on and about plans for the rest of the summer. I had barely noticed the amount that I'd had to drink, having lost count as every time I reached the dregs of the jug of sangria, it was whisked away and a new one appeared. I. More

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