In the mirror she examined the welts on her thigh where Angie’s friend had bitten into her flesh, running her finger across them, cherishing their m...mory for they were proof of Angie’s love. The hot stream caressed her skin as she showered and she couldn’t resist soaping deep inside herself. Angie had said she was insatiable and she was. The sex wasn’t just sex between them; the pain was not mere pain. They were sacraments. She dressed for her mission. She wore her best panties, the ones Angie. She could be a travel writer in the style of Bill Bryson, and my father’s decision to spend his retirement sailing the world in a thirty foot yacht gives her plenty of subject matter. My own journalistic talent comes from her and one day I shall publish her letters. To appease her I reply regularly, it’s become a fascinating intellectual challenge to find the correct Poste Restante destination based on dad’s text message log of their voyages. At the bottom of the box is my old mobile. Shit,. More

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