Squeals

I wake up shivering, head aches as the harsh white sunlight penetrates my eyelids to make me suffer despite my squinting eyes. I reach over clumsily to find the daylight armour that is my Mother's designer glasses. The pounding now softening, I look over to her frail body; goose-pimpled arms beneath her head to act as a cushion, a pleasant expression lies gently on her face. I push my pale fingers beneath the glasses and rub sleep from my eyes. The conservatory door lies open, suggesting nobody came home last night. I lean over and breathe into her bejeweled ear, "wake up, toots," in a mock southern drawl. 
She giggles quietly, body convulses as it becomes conscious of the fact that we slept outside, unprotected from the chill that creeps in when the sun sets on a summer evening. Her nipples push through the light cotton material of her dress; "you're cold - let's go inside."
We stand up, leave everything outside - tartan blanket, my iPod, empty pitcher... My mind is hit by the memory of what we did with the several lonely-looking cubes of ice, her loud squeals penetrating the silent blanket that lay over our neighbours houses.