My husband was dead against it, he has never like Darren, even less so after hearing what he has been up too, saying he is a dead beat and a waste of space, but I always try to do the right thing and persisted, my husband said “On you’re head, don’t come running to me when he smashes this place up”. He then called me a fool.I did not like that one bit; in fact it upset me a little.I agreed and that I wanted him to come and stay here for a few weeks while Debbie had her operation and recovered at home.My friend told me the ups and downs her son had, generally giving me advice, like every couple of days Darren would go to the Pharmacy and get his medication and that I was best to leave him alone for a couple of hours after, till he had calmed down, advice I did not take fully.Week 1: First day Sunday, Debbie dropped Darren of that afternoon as she had to up early Monday, my husband hardly spoke to Darren, in fact down right ignored him, he was his usual quiet self, did not want to. Tall, slim, but very hard-bodied, her skin was the whitest I'd ever seen. Jet black shoulder-length hair flared and bounced as she danced, always falling exactly back into place when she was still, as though it had a memory all its own.Even her dancing was unusual. One minute her moves were feline, stalking prey stageside. The next, she was playful and laughing, as though she was having the time of her life. For the first time that night I was staring, and she was returning looks that bumped my pulse another notch. Her last song was a slow blues tune. She writhed and stretched on the stage floor under blue lights, eyes closed, as though she was alone, stroking and fondling her milky thighs and breasts. She had hushed the raucous place into silence while assuring us her thoughts were miles away.It wasn't long before she was sitting at my table. I didn't even have to ask, and I was sure I was the luckiest guy in the place. Thinking back, it's hard to imagine believing the fantasy that.
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