To my surprise, she came on her own.“How are they treating you in here, son? Are the guards and other prisoners ok? Are they teaching you anything?”I looked at my mum and asked in return, “Why hasn’t dad come.”“Your father could not make it because he was out of the country for work.”I said to her angrily, “I am learning to do some gardening; I like to be outside in the fresh air!”“Why are you talking to me like that, Jack?” she exclaimed as she started crying.I banged my hand on the table shouting, “It’s Sunday, mum. You’re telling me dad is on a business trip.”Crying she mumbled, “It’s killing him, Jack, seeing you like this. Have you seen yourself lately, Jack?”I just stared at her for a few seconds, got up, walked to the guard and asked him to let me out of the room.That night just before the lights went out, I was lying on my bed looking at the envelope and replaying the last words my mum said, “Have you seen yourself lately Jack?” Was I becoming like Mr Giordano? Then something. I’m not very comfortable with other peoples’ tears and not a natural soother but I did my best, freed my trapped hand so that I could softly intertwine my fingers with hers, pressed her face into the warmth of my chest, allowed my fingers to tease along the nape of her neck and used them to comb through the somewhat tangled mess of her hair. All the while my mouth emitted pleasantries and platitudes as I felt Pippa’s pretty flesh trembling against me, as she dampened the fine cotton of my blouse with her tears until I felt it sticking to my skin. At some point I kissed her, a soft, gentle peck atop her head as my fingers drifted along her quite prominent collar bone. Finally the sobbing stopped and Pippa raised her tear smeared, quivering lipped face up so that once again we looked each other in the eyes. I felt her hand on my thigh, trembling fingers, sticky palm, the heat burning through the fine denier of my stockings, nails playing nervously along their lace tops. Pippa’s face.
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