She watched from the back window, again reliving each moment of the night before, her guilt intensifying. She simply had to talk to someone. Anyone! Even Brian, perhaps. He had a head on his shoulders. Well, that's not all he had, she thought, looking at his body with a careful glance as be moved the mower closer. He looked like a Greek God, all blond and tanned, his thick muscles forming hard angles on his six-foot frame.

It's thoughts like that that got me where I am! She warned herself.

Still, he certainly looked good.

"Boy, it's hot out there," he said, coming in a few moments later. "Anything to drink?" As he talked, he fumbled in the refrigerator and took out the milk carton. He almost drained the contents in one gulp. Some of the milky fluid dripped from the corners of his mouth. "Whew! That sure hits the spot," he said, replacing the carton.

"Can I talk to you, Brian?" Bernice began, now afraid to look at his body, choosing to gaze into his dark-blue eyes. "It's something that has me worried."

"Shoot," the boy said, sitting down opposite her. "I'd rather stay in here where it's cool anyway."

Bernice took a deep breath, then looked down at her coffee cup. She began explaining what had happened the night before, saying the words almost in a sing-song fashion. As she heard herself speak, she hardly recognized her own voice. And the story, itself, seemed oddly disjointed.

"OK, I'll bite," Brian said, grinning. "What's the punch line?" Her and Mike fucking? Ridiculous! "Well?"

"It's true," she said. "And I feel terrible!"

"Wow, you mean… you and that little fart really…"

"Yes," she said, then burst into tears. "Oh God, what am I going to do?"

"Hey, Mom, it's OK," the older boy said. He stood and walked around the table. He touched her shoulders, then pulled her into his arms, embracing her warmly. "It'll work out," he cooed in her ear. "Nothing's so bad it can't be fixed."