On our way back to your mum’s, evening creeps and the fog blankets the town like a billowing bedsheet. Somewhere above us, fireworks are picking at the hidden heavens, and although we can’t see them, we can hear their endings, loud yet distant. Walking for miles down lanes I traversed as a kid, I remember the constant search for adventure to divert me away from the constraints of the adult world I knew were just around the corner. Sometimes I think I succeeded, others, lost, but with you in my life, it doesn’t matter either way. When I was a teenager, you would’ve been just a little girl. Sounds perverted, doesn’t it? When I first discovered masturbation, you weren’t even five. That’s even more perverted. Somehow though, time seems less important now. At least it does in this regard. When we get to your mum’s, we find the place empty and tidy away the clutter before preparing some food. I can’t cook, so you do pretty much everything while I set the table. Once we’re done eating, you go upstairs and take a shower. It doesn’t take you long, and once you’ve finished, you dry yourself off and sit yourself down by my feet. This is your way of letting me know you want me to comb your hair. As I do, you purr like a cat, and the circles beneath your eyes shine like bruises. Later, you roll a joint. After two puffs, I promptly pull a whitey. Taking me upstairs to your childhood bedroom, you lay me down on the bed where I imagine I’m dying while you giggle to yourself like the girl still alive inside your heart. All through the night, the fireworks continue to fight in vain against the fog—their battle cries causing my heart to palpitate. The house is old and makes strange noises. You’re making strange noises too. Masturbating in the throes of a giddy high, you chatter your teeth as the orgasm washes over your tender bones, and as you raise your hands to the ceiling, it’s as if some great puppeteer in the sky is guiding your every feeling.