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They were the fears and feelings I was dealing with, pure and simple. I was terrified he'd see my "confession" as a rejection of him, or that he'd reject me as his mother. He'd kept me alive for so long that the thought of losing him was beyond frightening – it almost certainly meant suicide.Nevertheless, it had to be done.It was one of those moments that's etched in my memory with stark clarity. It was a cool, sunny fall afternoon. I'd been laying on my bed in a state of emotional anguish,. But you've just let it get all long and shaggyand tangled-looking." Yeah, I guess I could get it cut, maybe." No. You're not getting it cut. It's a nice length now, it just needs tobe trimmed and styled a little. We'll work on it this Saturday." So thatwas that.Christine started working on my hair in the late morning and kept at itfor the next four hours or so - washing it and putting some lightener onit, and conditioner, and trimming it, and doing something with it, andthen being unhappy with. I badly wanted to set it out free from that tight bra and fondle it with utmost desire. It was a dream for me to do so and still a dream for many guys at that age.I always believed that time and tide wait for none. So I was ready to make a move whatever was the consequence. I used to ping her through facebook asking doubts related to studies and stuff. It gave me some confidence to hit with more personal stuff.Day by day, we became close. I used to turn at her, smile during class hours and even. Granny skirts were Ginny’s trademark. She wore these baggy sweaters that engulfed her body. Her face was disjointed, and the bones meshed in an uneven sort of way. She talked like a therapist. Every sentence came from a psychology book. Ginny’s body had a coat hangar sort of look. It curved abnormally in the strangest of places. Ginny’s office was rather basic. Light blue walls, a dirty white window blind that desperately needed dusting, a pop tart colored bookshelf that had tiny holes in each.
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