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Paul Simon's classic song Graceland drifts through the car radio, and fills my head with her image. It's as if she's sitting next to me, her bare feet on the bash board singing out-of-tune with the rhythmic beat of the uneven tarmac. For a woman in her mid-sixties my mother knew a good song when she heard one, and this is one of her favourites. Pushing the volume button and I join her in an imaginary duet: Memphis - Tennessee, I'm going to Graceland. There's an overwhelming sense of deja-vu as I turn off the 40 from Nashville and head towards Lamar. A journey I've done so many times before. The chance realisation of being just a few miles from the Elvis mansion, whilst listening to Paul Simon's tribute isn't wasted on me. It's just another uncanny coincidence that seems to be happening a lot since she passed away.

My heart lifts as I pull up outside her old home. An old wooden farmhouse set in two acres of rolling fields. A place where I'd spent most of my school vacations, and where in later life she'd taught me how to be happy again.

The killer sun cascades through the windows as I settle myself into her favourite chair. The humidity assaulting any remaining energy I have left after an eight hour flight, and a three hour drive. I hungrily unwrap the Cheese sandwich that I'd bought at Ricardo's, my mum's favourite deli. I like Ricardo, he's a decent man. He's been my mum's landlord for twenty five years. Generations of his family before him have owned the farmhouse going back over 100 years. He served me himself whilst offering his condolences, and told me everyone in the town liked her. I'd known his two sons from when they were first born, mum and I went to their christenings and now they were young men. They came out to shake my hand, which was kind of them.

I have always known my mum preferred male company, and men seemed to like her too - she never really got on well with women for some reason. She'd say: 'You can tell a man to fuck off and he'd either laugh or leave. If you tell a woman to fuck off, she'd be more angry about the fact that you'd sworn at her.' She always made me laugh with her silly psychology.

I open the first bottle of my six pack and take a long pull, happy to be here with my thoughts. Past memories continually chase me around this house. Like the pigeons in Trafalgar Square they were everywhere. If I fed them, they'd clamber all over me, flap about and peck at my thoughts, and if I kick out at them, they'd reappear under my feet trying to trip me up. My parents separated when I was ten. My mum confessing to a lover and a drink problem. Soon after that she headed south to Memphis, leaving me and dad in the Capital city. My father, all indignant and pious fought her in the court and won. Although a couple of years later I'm sure he regretted his victory. I was the reward and not a particularly good one. I turned into the epitome of a rebellious teenager, and we fought bitterly at every opportunity and on every subject.

I suspected an out-of-kilter chromosome that I had inherited from my mum; authority often annoyed me back then. I hated my dad for being too strict, and my mum for leaving me with him. The truth was, I guess, I just hated 'everyone' at that age.

Dad passed away at forty-one, his judicious heart suddenly packing up whilst riding his bicycle to church. Neither exercise, nor god it seems could save him. I never rode a bike after that, too scared of history repeating itself I guess; he was a year younger than I am now when he died.

Sometime later I turned into him without realizing it. I got a degree in Modern History and like him I became a teacher. I constantly teased myself about the comparison, imagining myself to be boring and aloof like him. Although, like my mum, I seemed to have no shortage of friends. At the time of his death, I was bumming around Europe and had fallen in love with an English girl. I arrived back in Washington too late for his funeral, which I regretted enormously. Something I was determined I wouldn't repeat for my mum.

I had spent so many blissful times in this house, it was impossible not to be elated. Real and rare moments of happiness came flooding into my brain. Mum telling me fabulous stories of her time in Spain; her sparkling dark eyes bouncing from one memory to another in quick succession. Recounting her life with a mixture of genuine sorrow and booze driven excitement. I was never sure if her stories were true or not, but I loved them anyway.

Tales of her childhood in various homes in Andalusia; busking with her gypsy family, playing three-card-tricks, and cheating money from the outsiders who came to the fiesta. Her father the agitator, was pulled from a secret communist meeting by Franco's troops, and was never seen again. Then, leaving her home at the age of eighteen she made her way to Barcelona, dancing flamenco in bars and clubs. After a few years she met my father the American tourist, strong and reliable. To her he was the polar opposite to all of the unfaithful boyfriends she'd had before. She fell hopelessly in love with him, and emigrated to D.C.

I recall her black opal eyes, full of anger one minute and sadness the next. Her smooth olive skin iridescent in the lamplight as she tucked me into bed. She would rub her face against mine and say: 'You have the gypsy nose Pedro. You look like your Grandfather tall and handsome, all the women will love you.'

The Cuban heels of her dance shoes were like thunder on the kitchen floor. 'El Fuego is here', she'd shout in a drunken slur. Supple wrists and expressive fingers mixed with the sensual sway of her hips. I didn't know much about sexuality in my youth, but I sensed it all around her when she danced. She was the most beautiful person I had ever known, and as a young man she filled my scared and doubtful days with excitement and adventure.

There was always music in this house. Elvis. The Stones. The Doors and Joni would bounce off the walls and into my memory bank. Sometimes the wail of flamenco voices could be heard coming from scratched records, but mostly I remember the songs of Paul Simon. We'd share a glass or two of San Miguel and she'd have a whiskey chaser. 'Just two fingers Pedro' she'd call, as I poured it for her. 'And don't forget, no ice, I'm not fucking American.' She must have told me that a thousand times in my life. She never liked ice in her drink.

We'd sing along enthusiastically to Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits, until she'd fall into a drunken sleep. She was a hippy, a punk, a rebel and a drunk, often angry, very unreliable, but always happy to see me, and I loved her with all my heart. I wiped away my tears and raised my bottle to the sky. "Cheers mum."

I was dragged from my perfect revelry by a gentle knock on the front door. "Hello?" A soft female voice called through the fly screen.

I don't want company today. I want to wallow in my grief, and for a second or two I think about not answering, but I know the intruder must have seen my car parked out front.

"Hello," I reply, "It's open."

I imagine if I just sit there without making any effort, she'd know I wasn't the welcoming kind. I hear the creak of the door and the slap of flip-flops as she walks into the lounge.

"Hi, sorry to disturb you. I'm Maria."

"Yes, of course you are." I say sarcastically, looking straight ahead without acknowledging her.

"What does that mean?" she replies abruptly.

I'd got to her, I could tell. Maybe she'd fuck off now and leave me alone? I turn towards her and set my face into a scowl, the pre-requisite of the seasoned teacher. The first thing I see is her long dark hair that's caught in a shard of evening sun, a golden spear lighting up the beautiful colours. Some vaguely remembered T.V. ad comes into my head. A gorgeous brunette with a sexy voice, bestowing a palette of colours that have ridiculous names like midnight lust and cobalt caress. I'm drunk on the lack of sleep and it's hard to focus my mind, but I find the answer I'm looking for. 'L'Oreal', that was it. 'Because she's worth it'. I laugh to myself and wipe my bloodshot eyes, trying to concentrate on the pretty woman in front of me.

I stand up and hold out my hand. "Hi, I'm Peter, sorry It's been a long day." A pretty lame excuse for my indifferent behaviour.

"Of course, I should have realised, you're Fran's son aren't you."

Her irresistible eyes conjure images from my crazy teenage trip around the Mediterranean. Hot sunny days, drinking cheap wine and lying between the legs of some brown skinned beauty.

It's as if my rudeness hasn't affected her at all. Ignoring my outstretched hand, she moves between my arms and gives me a hug. Her soft breath exciting the hairs on my neck. I want to return her affection, but somehow I feel foolish and shy. Her bare arms and legs are strangely disconcerting, reminding me of the female students who come to my lectures dressed in miniskirts and vest tops, enough flesh on show to satisfy a coroner. 'Whatever happened to jeans and a tee shirt.' I ask myself.

Twenty years ago I'd have been all over her, but now I can't even get my hug right. My hands move around uncontrollably, scared of what I might touch, so I reluctantly back away. "You have me at a loss I'm afraid, do you know my mother?"

"Oh yes, we've become great friends in the last year or two." Her dark eyes shine brightly, but there's a sadness behind them that's impossible to ignore.

My mother was always collecting young people - I put this one at twenty five tops. However, unlike most of my mother's young friends this was a woman, which to the best of my knowledge rarely happened. Normally they were guys, mostly drifters, bearded and always handsome. I imagine the implications were obvious to the gossip-mongers in town.

"Where's my manners," I say, pointing to the sofa. "Would you like a beer?"

"A beer would be lovely, thanks," she waves a hand in front of her face like a fan, to show how hot she feels. "Wow, San Miguel, that's perfect, your mum's favourite."

Her gorgeous smile catches me off guard, and my eyes follow her as she backs onto the sofa and pops the top of her beer like an expert. There's something about this girl that enthrals me, but I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's the hair and the black eyes or could it be the Spanish accent? It's like my mum is sitting here with me, keeping me company.

"I'm sorry about your loss," she adds, her eyes locked onto the label of the bottle as if it holds some special significance. "She was a special lady your mum, are you here to arrange the funeral?"

A picture comes into my head of a young woman, dressed in a black cloak and holding a single white lily. She stands over a grave. She calls my name and hugs me. The cloak falls open and she's naked underneath except for a pair of black dancing shoes.

"Well, I've already arranged it as it happens, the wonders of the internet and all that. It's in three days time at the local crematorium. I was hoping to put an ad in the local paper for anyone who'd like to come along."

"Oh, that's clever of you, there'll be lots of people who'll want to attend, everybody liked your mum. Can I help you with anything?"

Like many young people I'd encountered in my life, they believed the internet was for the sole use of the under 30's. They always seem shocked when someone older could unravel its mystery. However, she is so charming that I instantly forgive her the implication.

"Um, thank you. Maybe?" I reply.

I had got used to doing everything for myself since my wife had left me eight years ago. I had become so independent that I nearly always rejected offers of help, in case people thought me weak or vulnerable. I'd heard the whispers: 'Poor Mr Bishop, all alone, nobody to look after him'. The women seemed to be worse, often asking: 'Are you okay, do you need some company after work?' I'd been tempted on many occasions to go to end of term drink, but I'd seen too many careers damaged by liaisons with students or fellow teachers. So I'd always make my excuses, and pretend I was busy.

"Actually, there is something you could help me with, it's the one thing I've been dreading."

"Of course, I'd like that. What is it?" Her eyes stare at me excitedly.

She's certainly beautiful, and I wonder why I'd never met her before on one of my visits. "Would you be able to help me bag up my mum's clothes tomorrow and maybe help box up some of her stuff?" I wasn't sure if there was some unwritten rule that meant only relatives could do this horrible task. I didn't care, I wanted to see her again. "I could pick you up if you like, do you live locally?"

"Oh yes, very local." There's a grin on her face, but I don't understand why.

I hadn't heard a car pull up, so I guess she'd walked here. I'm enjoying the banter between us, it's fun and a little playful too, like she's teasing me in some familiar way.

"Why did you come here by the way? Was there something you wanted?" I return her smile, and watch as she nervously picks at a loose thread on the hem of her skirt.

"Well, I saw the car in the drive and wondered if you was the realtor, I was being nosey really." Her eyes lock onto mine and seeing me looking at her busy fingers, crosses her legs and smooth's down her skirt. "I was wondering what the rent would be. Are you going to move in?"

She has that mischievous way my mum always used for getting her own way. It was plainly self-motivated, but beguiling all the same. I could tell she was lying. No right minded realtor would be driving a rented Ford that was well past its prime. Yet, I enjoyed the idea that she was being deceitful. It made her less precious and somehow more accessible, as if she may be open to temptation.

"No, I won't be renting it, I'll be returning to England in a week or two." I reply.

"Oh, that's a real shame."

She uncrossed her legs and pulls down the bottom of her tight fitted top, hiding her brown stomach. If she was being coy, which I doubted, she didn't mind highlighting the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. Two hard pips push against the stretched cotton of her vest, and I quickly look away. Downing the last of my bottle of beer, hoping the distraction would take away the tingle in my balls.

"Your mum said you're a teacher. You don't look much like a teacher to me, way too handsome for job like that." Her cheeky grin, lets me know she'd caught me looking at her hard nipples.

'She's flirting with me. Isn't she? That's a compliment, right?' I think to myself.

I always do this, over think things with women. 'Just go with the flow' I tell myself. I suck in my belly, and imagine lifting her up and carrying her to bed. Then just as quickly feel stupid for even contemplating it.

"Another beer?" I say, hoping she hasn't seen my embarrassment.

"No, I better not, thank you. I'm not used to drinking. I might get a bit squiffy, then you'll have to carry me home." Had she read my mind?

She smiles sexily and adds, "I think I better go," and she rises slowly from the sofa, and makes her way towards the door. "Shall we meet tomorrow? I'm working in the morning, but I'm free in the afternoon."

I want her to stay, to talk about my mum, and maybe chat about other stuff too. "How about lunch, if you're not too busy?"

"That'll be lovely, shall we say about one?" She leans in and hugs me again. This time I hug her back, her face sits comfortably tucked in the crook of my neck. "It's been so good to meet you at last Pedro."

I walk her through the front door and I'm intrigued. Nobody calls me Pedro except my mum, have they been talking about me?

We hadn't noticed the darkness that had suddenly spread around the house. There's a green-blue haze to the threatening dark clouds, that look so low that I feel I can almost touch them. A flash of lightening cracks way beyond the fields, sparking off the ground and sending blue electric spits into the humid air. Then the heavens open and huge wet drops fall onto the hard and parched ground, then very quickly the drips became a deluge.

I shout above the noise of the angry rain that pelts against the porch roof. "Oh my god, you can't walk home in this, come back inside for a while, I'm sure it'll pass."

"Yes, you're right, I'll get soaked in this. I haven't got a coat." The thought of her wet and transparent top fills my mind and I discretely adjust my cock without her seeing.

Moving under the shelter of the veranda, she stops and looks into my eyes. "I love thunderstorms, don't you?" Her hand reaches out beyond the cover of the porch, and she lets her fingers play in the rain. "Do you think we could just sit on the porch and watch for a while?"

"Is that a good idea," I say hurriedly, a little unnerved by her reckless lack of fear. "This place is all wood in case you hadn't noticed."

Suddenly a clap of thunder shakes the air so loud it makes her gasp. "Wow, that was a close one!" Her face full of childlike joy. "I'm sure I'll be safe with you to protect me though," She giggles nervously, and moves towards the porch swing. "How about that beer now Peter?"

Wiping her wet hand against her skirt she sits and tucks her legs under herself. I couldn't help but notice her sun kissed thighs, and I wonder if there maybe a tan line? And would I get to see it?

I return with our beers, thinking this really isn't a great idea, but sitting next to her is way too appealing to be frightened now; my dad certainly wouldn't have approved of being outside in weather like this.

For a moment I stand and watch her, fascinated by the black hair that had fallen over one shoulder. It's as if the storm is feeding her, making her even more beautiful.

"Cheers," I clink her bottle with mine. "Won't your folks be worried about you?" I settle down next to her and secretly check for a ring.

"Nope!" Her reply is blunt and lifeless, but I feel her hand slip into mine as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

For a while we sit in silence, watching the lightening flash in the distance and hear the thunder moving further away.

"Oh, that's a shame, I think it's going to stop raining." she says.

She was right, the hot sun breaks free from behind the clouds, and quickly heats the wet ground. We watch fascinated as the steam whispers upwards from the tarmac road, moving in little billowing clouds like ghostly partners in some imaginary line dance. A humid stillness takes over, replacing the powerful drama with a frightening silence. As if someone has pressed a button on the remote control, and changed the channel. Nothing moves, the trees have become statues, and I can no longer hear the ever present call of the gulls down by the nearby Mississippi. It captures our crazy intimate moment perfectly, and I rub my finger gently over the delicate skin on the back of her hand. I haven't felt like this in a long time; I want to kiss her and to hold her in my arms, and tell her how I feel. Yet, I'm too scared. It all seems too good to be true. Nobody falls in love at first sight do they? Except maybe in the movies. Am I being ridiculous, perhaps she's always this tactile; I'm almost old enough to be her father for god's sake.

"My folks are dead," she quietly says, as if it was an everyday observation. "My mum died seven years ago. Why are people always dying Peter?"

I don't know what to say, I was never great at sharing my emotions. However, my struggle with her question doesn't trouble me for long, because a frightening noise suddenly fills the heavy air and changes everything.

"Oh my god," she yells. "Quick, we need to go inside!"

"What's going on, what's that awful noise?" I reply, I could tell she was genuinely scared.

"It's the tornado siren."

I grab our beers and we run into the lounge. Tornadoes were something my mum often told me about, but I just thought it was another of her drunken stories. Like the time she claimed she'd seen big foot.

I hadn't noticed her tears until she stopped and turned, her eyes full of what I thought was fear. "I'm sure we'll be safe inside," I say, trying to be reassuring. "I'll push a mattress in front of the door, and we'll shelter under the table. I've seen the video's, it'll be ok. Please don't cry." I'm not convinced I really know what I'm talking about, but it sounds good anyway.

She looks into my eyes, "I miss her so much." Her sods coming in quick breathless gulps.

Did she move first or was it me? I'm not sure. All I know is that she feels good in my arms. I pull matted strands of damp hair away from her face, and wipe away her tears with my soft fingers. I know her desolation; like mine, it's completely overwhelming.

"It's ok Maria, I know how you feel. It's awful when you lose them, I miss 'my' mum too."

Her mouth meets mine and I respond without hesitation, like the storm her energy is uncontrollable. I feel her tongue slip beyond my teeth and my hand runs down her body as I pull her close. Sobs turn into heavenly sighs, encouraging and enticing me. Hot lips travel to my cheek and down my chin to my throat, then onto my chest, a breathless kiss for every step en route to somewhere I can only imagine, and I picture her kneeling in front of me, my cock in her mouth. My arousal is quick and hard and I know she must feel it against the soft curve of her stomach. Small sexy bites send shivers down my spine, whilst warm hands pull at my shirt.
I instinctively return her lust and slide my hand under her skirt; a madness in my passion that I'd never known before. Her legs part for me, and I feel the heat against my hand. She responds with soft, feminine sighs, which I find breathlessly alluring. Our hungry hands pulling, undoing and opening, and her top falls to the ground, followed by my shirt. Then just as my fingers find her wetness, her body goes rigid and she pushes me away.

"No! Stop! We can't, this isn't right!" Her hand's cover her naked breasts.

I back further away, scared of what I'd done. Had I forced myself upon her? Had I taken advantage of her drunkenness? She'd warned me about having another beer. Had I misread the signs?

"What's wrong? I thought you wanted to...," I'm alarmed by the sudden change between us. "I went too fast, didn't I." My voice gets louder, angry at my own stupidity. "It's your mum isn't it? Oh fuck! I'm so sorry!"

"No, you don't understand. Please, I did want to." She reaches out a hand, but I refuse it. A perfect brown nipple comes into view, defying me to turn away.

I don't want to be like some stereo-typical man, I want to show her that I'm different. That I'm a gentleman, wise and understanding. Yet somehow my male pride gets in the way and her rejection becomes too strong for me.

"Its my age isn't it? I'm too old for you, you don't have to deny it. Next, you'll be saying, 'its me, not you'. Please spare me that one at least." I shout at her in anger and hate myself for doing it.

If the tornado is coming I want it to come now. I don't care about hiding under the table anymore. It seemed romantic a few moments ago, but now the idea is hateful. Let the wind come and do its worst and break my guilt. I quickly drink my beer and open another, anything to block out the reality and the awful coldness between us.

"I need to tell you something, I need to explain." her face is pleading with me now and she pulls her top over her head, shielding herself from me.

"You don't have to, it's ok. I completely understand. Why would 'you', fancy 'me'?" I could hear my own voice, full of self-pity.

"Don't be like that, please. It doesn't suit you." Suddenly she seems much older than her years, she's become the teacher and I'm the half-witted and embarrassed pupil.

"Please let me explain," she adds, rushing her words. "I want to tell you everything, then maybe you'll understand. You see, like your mum, I was born in Southern Spain. I never knew my father, and I lived alone with my mother, who had been cast out by her family. They couldn't accept her pregnancy, she was only sixteen - it was awful for both of us yet the years went by and we got through it, or at least I thought we had. It was so hard for my mother to accept their rejection she'd always loved them. After a while she rarely left the house and turned to drugs to relieve her pain. I hated her family for what they'd done to her, and eventually I convinced her it would be better if we moved away. I worked hard at college and got a part-time job, I wanted to make it right for her. She changed when we got a new home, she got some help and started to get clean. Then one day I came home to find she'd committed suicide."

I'm completely stunned by her story and want to hold her again. Hoping we could return to the way it was, but her eyes were set firm like hard black pebbles, keeping me away.

"I know what you're thinking," she adds, "You believe the grief for my mum stopped me wanting you, that somehow your age matters to me? Well, you couldn't be more wrong!" Her eyes were now wet with renewed tears. "When my mum died I hated her for leaving me, I was only seventeen and suddenly I was alone in the world. I sold my mum's clothes and anything else I thought had any value, everything else went in the trash. You'll think me hard and selfish, but I'd been living my whole life for her, and I was determined to make that change. One day I found a cardboard shoe box hidden at the very back of a kitchen cupboard, inside was her bible, a picture of the Pope and a postcard. There was just one line on the postcard, written in English: To my beautiful little sister. I'll love you always, El Fuego."

She turned towards me, her eyes watching my face, and waiting for a reaction. Slowly I started to understand. My mother was El Fuego, that was her stage name, 'The Fire'.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" I said, now in total shock.

"Yes, Peter, it's true, we are cousins," I watched the glistening tears fall down her cheeks., but she continued with barely a breath.

"On the front of the postcard was a picture of Elvis standing outside Graceland, and the postmark said Memphis. It took me six years to save enough money to come to America and another year to find your mum. I wasn't crying because I missed 'my' mum, I was crying because I miss 'your' mum."

I nervously hurry around the room, unable to keep still. "But why hadn't she told me all this?"

"We decided not to tell anyone, including you, she said it was for the best. She was so kind to me Peter, she looked after me and took away my sadness. She helped me with my English and got me a job. It was easy to keep it a secret, she was always taking in strays. As far as everybody else was concerned, I was just another one of her temporary adoptions. We soon became best friends and I loved her very much."

"But you kissed me, we nearly..."

"I know, I'm sorry! It just sort of happened, please believe that. I watched you from the road when you first arrived, tall and handsome just like I imagined you'd be. Your eyes just like hers warm and beautiful, and instantly I knew. I waited outside watching you through the window. I thought about leaving several times, but there was something deep inside me that held me there. I wanted you so much. When you got out of her chair I saw a male version of someone I already loved, and when we hugged you melted my heart. I couldn't help myself. I know it's wrong, but I've never felt like this before. I think you feel it too."

She was right, I did feel it too. "So what now?" I was confused by my continuing desire for her.

"I think I should go. I'm not being fair, but at least you know the truth now. I've been a fool, I'm sorry Pedro. Please forgive me."

"But the tornado?" I reply, my heart arguing with my brain.

She shrug's her shoulders and slowly opens the door, and without another word she's gone.

Opening the last of my beer's I sit on the floor, my back pressed hard against the sofa. My head aches - I've drunk too much and I realise I've hardly eaten in twelve hours and I haven't slept in thirty-six. However, in my head it seems more like a week. It's all been a shock, I'm not used to all this. I've quickly fallen in love with the most beautiful woman in the world, then just as quickly I'd lost her. Looking towards the dresser I wonder if there's any whiskey inside.

After a horrid night of disjointed dreams and uncomfortable imaginations, I awake to the early morning sunlight. It blind's my eyes and makes me feel sick. 'Self inflicted wounds.' I hear my mum laugh through my addled brain. She would know, she was an expert on hangovers. 'No time for self-pity Pedro' she'd say if she was here. So I head straight to the bathroom to relieve my bladder, and to drown my pain under the spray of a hot comforting shower. After some toasted bread and numerous cups of coffee, I feel almost human again. I steel myself for the first morbid task of the day.

I can't suppress my surprise as I enter my mums bedroom, and laugh out loud in shock. Full boxes and loaded garbage bags are stacked neatly in one corner. The normal maelstrom of bulging wardrobes and cluttered draws are now completely empty, everything is clean, polished and spotless. I'd never seen it like this before. There is only one person who could have done this and I knew who it was. She had tried to shield my pain because she'd experienced the same pain herself. At that very moment I love her even more than I did before.

I walk to the spare bedroom and found the complete opposite. It was as if yesterdays storm had crept into this room and thrown everything around. I'd been inside enough female bedrooms over the years, to know this was probably heaven for most women. The scent of her is everywhere, and my eyes are flooded by mirrors, hair brushes and a baffling array of make-up. Pots and potions fill almost every surface. Open and empty C.D cases lay around the floor, the discs either lost or hiding in the wrong case. I study cut-out photos of young men, that are haphazardly tucked into the edge of a picture frame. I'm surprised to see one of myself taken three years ago, on a picnic with mum. The old Bonnard print was the only thing that remains from the time when this was 'my' room. Feeling a little voyeuristic, I run my fingers over a pile of discarded clothes that lay on the unmade bed. Jeans, blouses and skirts mix with brightly coloured tops in a jumbled heap. A pair of red panties have half-escaped from the bundle and I fight my desire to touch them. As I walk towards theTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.