My pockets were full of scraps of paper, bits of card, stuff like that. I pulled one out and examined it. There was scribbled writing on it. ‘Kathry...,’ it read, followed by a cellphone number. I reached for the next. It was a piece of card torn from the corner of a menu or some such. ‘Please, please, please call me. Your Sara,’ and a number again. I felt in my pocket again, the next was also card but seemed more regularly shaped. It was a passport-type photograph of the delicate. She’s got that kind of ass that only gets better with age. But she’s not all that old either. Probably in her mid-30s if I had to guess. “Hey, honey!” my mother says as she hangs up the phone. “I didn’t see you come in.’ She lands a kiss on my cheek, giving a clear shot of her cleavage. Even though it’s so fucking gross, I can’t help but peek. Fuck! Why can’t I take my eyes off my mother’s tits? What the hell is wrong with me?“I’ve got some great news, baby!” she says, sounding so chipper. “My. More

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