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She doted on me, telling me what I needed to hear, and more besides..."He was never right for you," she'd say, "not if he could do that."I'd nod, knowing she was right, but not daring to let go of the exquisite comfort of pain. My pain defined me, or so I thought, my heartbreak was the chalk outline of my suffering.So, she held me, hugging me close to her chest, touching her warm hand to my leg, offering me silence when everyone else kept talking in meaningless platitudes and dismissive impatience.Inevitably then, through that intimate closeness, my pain gradually became replaced by something else. Something new. Something scary. I began to crave her touch, that sense of mothering closeness, that feeling of my skin on hers. I became a junkie for the perfumed aroma of her clothes, the soft texture of her nylon stockings against my leg, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she held me close, her whispered words. I began to make excuses to visit her, prolonging the outward. “SHIT! You scared the hell out of me!” she shouted. “Sorry hunnie – I just thought we’d better get started. Wine?” “Hmmm yes indeed.” “So where is Patrick tonight?” I asked. “Who cares? Patrick is an ass!” “Oh – problems?” I ventured. “Daddy you always taught me to stand up for myself – so I did.” “Oh? What happened?” “We had words, Daddy – nothing more. Honestly there is nothing for you sort out.” “What sort of words?” “Never mind. Where is that wine?” I was concerned. Sally was clearly not pleased. I decided not to press the matter and poured us both a glass of wine. Sally took her glass with a smile, placed the salad in the fridge and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Come and sit down, Dad. Let’s have dinner wait a little while.” We sat and chatted about Sally’s latest business trip. New York was the place to be, apparently. I just simply enjoyed her smiles paying little attention to the detail of her conversation. An hour later we ate having finished a bottle of wine. The meal was.
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