A mistake, apparently. Before shestopped counting, Aidan had sent her sixteen text messages and at leastas many voice mails since she left New Jersey two days ago. Each one ofthese messages angrier and more self-deprecating in content than the onebefore, alternating in a pattern as familiar and predictable as one ofthose mathematical curves she'd half-learned about in school.Yes, she was well aware that the closer anyone got to her the more shefelt she had to back up in order to re-establish that all-importantneutral zone. She needed space. She needed separation. Otherwise how elsecould she figure out where she ended and other people began? And if thosepeople decided to leave, as, in her experience, they invariably did atsome point, they might take something of her with them that she couldn?tlive without.Like her heart, for instance.The problem wasn?t that she couldn't get close to people but that she hadsuch a need for love that she felt her own self could get swept away inthe rush. It was more comparable to a mother and daughter. As time went on, she leaned on my opinion of her appearance, and the times we got her ready to go out were precious times together.I was thirteen when I first tried on some of her silky panties. I was standing in the laundry room by the washing machine and had retrieved a pair when it occurred to me to wonder how they felt. I immediately acted upon this impulse, removing my lower sweat pants and my normal panties. I then stepped into hers and was an enthusiast for life, as simple as that. I'd already been using Mother's hair removal cream in the shower, not that I had much hair to lose. I liked the smooth feeling all over, and the bathing oils and bubble bath balls, which Mother used, kept my skin soft. On the day that I tried on the pair of Mother's panties, I ran up the stairs in that ridiculous sweatshirt and lace-paneled pair of full briefs that fitted me a little loosely, for Mother was a size larger in the rump than I. I wanted.
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