I don't comment on it. "Why do you need to go see her anyways? Do you really not believe that I am real?" "I don't know..." I say quietly. "Baby, I am...as real as you are real. You feel my touch, you see me, and you can hear me. Is that not real enough?" he asks, holding my hand. "No, because I am the only one who sees you, who can feel your touch, and who can hear you." "How can I prove to you that I am real?" "I don't know." The ride home is quiet. When I park my car, he vanishes. I look up at. Knowing my mom as well as I do, I'm pretty sure she wasn't entertaining any other men when we were gone to school and my Daddy was off at work. But, then, do we ever know anyone well enough to be sure of that or anything else. Obviously not.My mother wasn't what you'd call beautiful or even very sexy, but she was my mother and I loved her. I began to realize that perhaps my father wasn't regularly doing Mom when I was rifling through their chest of drawers one time and I came across a box of. ?Hello gorgeous,? I respond, pulling off my wet jacket and throwing my arms around a girl in her early forties (only months younger than me) who today has her long blond hair pulled into a ponytail.This morning Amy was dressed in one of her signature sweater-dresses, over a pair of thick black leggings or maybe opaque tights. On the other hand (being atypical guy) I wore the usual jeans and polo shirt. We hugged this time a little longer than normal before I followed Amy into the kitchen while. She watches as her husband Tom steps out of the car. She smiles to herself and rushes from the living room to the bedroom.Casey only has to wait a minute of two before she hears the door close and Tom steps into the bedroom. She is lying on the bed, smiling at him casually.“How are you doing hon?” he asks, stripping off his jacket.“I’m doing better now that you’re here,” she says, rising and walking toward him. She wraps her arms around his neck. “I’ve been waiting all day for you and I am wet.
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