One summer day, half way through the swimming, my mum remembered that she had forgotten to turn the oven off – the chicken would have become a cinder, she exclaimed. We just dabbed off the water with the bath towel, got into the car with the bath towel spread on the seat. My mum drove with her two piece bikini wear with her 34 D boobs waiting to bounce off the cups. Her tummy, though not very slim, was glowing with the water droplets trickling down from her breast wear. Being summer, it wasn’t cold to sit without much clad around. At times mum kept putting her hand inside her bra and scratching the underneath of her breasts saying, “this chlorine is drying up on my skin and is really irritating me”. We reached home in half the usual time, she slowing down only at the two speed cameras on the way.As soon as she got the car on to the drive way, she shot out and opening the front door in haste rushed into the house and I followed collecting our bags. As I entered the kitchen what I saw. Who was this woman? Some nameless broad I met in some nameless bar? Was she my wife? A girlfriend? No, not even that. She was just a girl. A companion for the evening, nothing more, probably much less. No need to explain the complexities of my thought processes to her. No need to explain what I thought about the nature of reality. None of that mattered to her. What did matter to her then? I resigned my self to trying to take another look at her. Try to give her the benefit of the doubt. Try to figure out what she WAS interested it. What she DID think about. I took a sip of my drink and lit a cigarette. It was a way for me to occupy myself, with out making eye contact. ‘What do you think about?’ I asked finally. She looked shocked, stunned even. As if I had asked her what color panties she’d had on or if she spits or swallows. ‘What do you think about?’ I repeated, trying to break through her disbelief. ‘Lotsa things…’ She started to say. I looked at her fingernails as she.
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