"That's exactly what I said," she stated sharply, an iron resolve asserting itself.

Her beloved son pressed his palms to his forehead and bent over in apparent agony. She could not help putting a comforting arm around him. "That lousy tramp," he cried. "I-I can't understand it. We've been so close. God, you should have seen the way she made love to me just last night!"

Liz finished off her drink in one gulp. She could see that this had disturbed him more than she had anticipated, and she was at odds within herself as to what she should do. Her eyes rested on the tensed muscles of his legs just below the folds of the towel and traveled up to his crotch and then to his slightly hair-covered belly. Then she turned her gaze away.

"For Christ's sake, Ma, tell me what they did. Who was it who was doing it to her?" He slammed his fist hard into his other arm, making the ice cubes dance around on the inside of the glass… "Tell me all about it, every detail. I want to know everything!"

Liz shifted her weight. She stretched out her long perfectly formed legs in front of her and crossed them at her delicately curving ankles. As her green eyes coursed to his face, his own gaze now traversed the length of her body from the smoothly cupped firmness of her large high-set tits down to the rounded fullness of her lushly curving thighs.

"Oh, I can't do that," she said. "I can't turn a knife around in a wound," she sighed.

"But you don't understand, Ma! Not knowing what happened, who fucked that Goddamn whore makes things intolerable."

"Don't use that word!" Liz shouted nervously. "I can't stand to hear it. I'm tired of hearing it."

"What are you complaining about? I'm the one who has to worry about his wife's screwing around. Why are you acting as though it was you who was injured?"

"Anything that injures you…"