This is the prologue to a novel I'm attempting to write. Following this comes part one, chapter one.

Her hair clings to her sweaty lip as their bodies slap meaninglessly together, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, her feet pushing the sheet onto the floor as she fights for a footing, his back arched, a perfect bow, taut, ripped and for a second I absolve her.

But only for a second.

The wet thudding continues, faster, faster, her gaping mouth gulping in the guilty air surrounding them. He screws up his face, and it?s over, and I don?t feel like a fucking pervert for watching, because I?m not.

But God, I wish I was.

Two weeks ago it was boy meets girl, chocolate and the tangy scent of my own inexperience laced with far too much testosterone. For some reason, I couldn?t quite picture her whenever I thought about her; maybe I desired the ideal of having her, someone like her. Her name was Sara and she?d started work the same day as me, and I fell in love but didn?t, and then he fell in love and she did and so much else.

But for now, it?s irrelevant, I need to dig deeper, unravel the sleeve of the embarrassing Christmas jumper that is life and give a reason. I?m picking the thread and tracing it back to the start; I could start anywhere and I could give a half decent explanation, but I start in mid-1996, because that?s when she changed. ?She? isn?t Sara, of course. ?She? is my mother.
"You can never quarantine the past."