I look at her and shrug, eyes lingering — just for a moment — on the deep crease between my mother’s breasts, the little silver pendant I bought her last Christmas nestled in the valley.
The image comes to me. I imagine myself with my face pressed into her cleavage, the picture dissipating when I look at her eyes.
“Yeah,” I reply, sullen.
She pouts with a cocksucker’s moue that twitches my dick; then her lips all pink and puckered cause the dirty slide of jealousy, dripping like liquid shit down a drain, when I imagine those lips round his dick.
“Well, you don’t look all right,” says my mother near the door.
I’m sat in one of the armchairs while she’s standing. We’re both waiting for her mobile to buzz.
“I am,” I reply, snappy because I’m pissed off and petulant. I don’t like being this way but can’t shake the feeling.
“You sure?” she asks, head canting to one side.
The hot sting of tears surprises me. I decide I’ve got to get out of the room before I embarrass myself and give her cause for concern. What I don’t want are her well-intentioned yet probing questions. I nod and rise to my feet while croaking, “Yeah, sure.”
She follows me, heels pecking the kitchen floor tiles.
I’m at the fridge as she approaches. Keeping my back towards her, I reach in for a beer.
Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
“You don’t like him, do you?” she says as I turn.
I pop the tab, chagrined at being so obvious, thankful the tears haven’t spilled.
I shrug and take a sip and then say, “It’s none of my business.”
She looks at me for a while. I can’t tell what’s going on behind those eyes, so, nonplussed and awkward at being so physically close to my mother — I entertain a wild notion about leaning in to kiss her mouth — I swig from the can and move away to one side.
She doesn’t let up as I park my backside against the heavy oak table in the middle of the room. “Well, it sort of is, though, isn’t it, Sean? If things get serious.”
She must have seen the blood drain from my face, because my mother hastily goes on to add, “Not that it’s anywhere close to serious, I just mean it as a ‘what-if?’
“There’s no need to think anything different. I’m just saying … That’s all.” Then she sighs and mutters a heartfelt, “Shit,” when her mobile sounds, the word coming out sharp with frustration.
“Later,” she says, pushing the phone under her hair. My mother turns away from me while saying, “We’ll talk.
“Hello?” she continues, murmuring into her mobile. “Yes, I’m ready. I’m coming. See you in a sec.”
I sip beer without tasting it when the door slams closed, guts boiling with animosity towards the man in her company.
###
Tan lines started me off.
My mother took a holiday, late last year, to the Canaries, just before Christmas. I was at home when she returned, when she reverted to her habitual nudity.
Soon after, I noticed the pale outline of what must have been the briefest, most insignificant bikini bottoms ever made. She’d obviously been topless, because her boobs were all tanned — which didn’t faze me at the time. But the sheer eroticism of seeing those pale lines high on her hips gripped me in a way which had me gazing and hard.