He would always try to match up perfectly his hand, imagination and her moans.He didn't perv so much on them nowadays though. Now he would just put on...some headphones, even if he did permit some passing fantasies and a jerk off session or two listening to his parent’s sex.He parked in the driveway and headed to the front door. He found his mother in the kitchen leaning against a counter reading something on her phone. She wore a robe tied around her waist, hugging her body and ending about half. The calendar on the wall said 1989 – no one had bothered to change it for five years, then. There was a man singing on the small stage, his voice wizened beyond his years by whiskey and cigarettes. He was singing the cheesier of the Irish ballads, Americans would rather hear of Molly Malone and her cockles and mussels than Pádraic Pearse and his butchered schoolboys. They would rather think of Ireland as a place of happy leprechauns, drunken and merry, rather than the true tragedy of Bridget’s. More

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