“Hey!” Tom’s sneakers crunched on the asphalt as he galloped down towards the retreating figure. “Hey, wait! You dropped this!” For an old lady, she sure could move, he thought, feet pounding against the pavement. Her grey curls were wild, bobbing gently while she made her way out of the parking lot.
“Jeez, stop already!” He shouted. “You dropped something!” On the sidewalk, she stopped, and turned. Tom skidded to a halt, arrested in the heterochromatic gaze burning gently under her grey curls.
“Yes?” She asked, her voice inflected by an accent the college track star couldn’t place.
“Sorry,” he said, brushing his brown hair out of his eyes. “You dropped this, ma’am.” He proffered a cellophane-wrapped rectangle. Her weathered features split into a grin, revealing a brilliant white smile.
“Thank you.” She took the package from him, inspecting it for a moment, then handing it back. “But it’s not mine.”
“What?” Confusion marred Tom’s otherwise-fine features as he took it back. “I’m sure it’s yours, I saw you drop it outside the store.”
“Not mine,” she repeated, curls bouncing. “See, it’s pantyhose.” The old woman tapped the package. “I don’t wear ’em.” To prove her statement, she reached down and hiked up the hem of her skirt, revealing bare, skinny chicken legs that fed down into an ancient pair of Birkenstocks. “No hose.” The skirt dropped again. “Are you sure they’re not yours?”
“Mine?” Tom was taken aback. “No, I don’t wear- I mean, mom sent me down to buy- I mean, she’s gotta go to work and she asked me to-”
“Thank you.” Warm fingers reached up to caress his cheek. “You are a very good boy. I’m sure you’ll make your momma very happy.”
“What?” He said. “Listen, are you sure-”
“Aren’t you late?” The old woman asked.
“What? I-” Tom glanced down at his watch. 8:19. Fuck! His mom was waiting for him back at the house; he was probably going to make her late for work. Desperately he looked back at the drugstore, then back at his watch, then down at the package in his hand. He poked his nose in the opened end. They *looked* black, anyway. That would have to do.
“Fuck. Fuck! I’ve got to go! Bye!” With a wave, Tom was off again like a shot, galloping back towards the house. If these things turned out to be the wrong size or color or whatever, she’d just have to deal.
—
Amanda Werner checked her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, tapping her foot impatiently. She never should have sent him. She should have just gotten in the car and gone herself and been late or just sucked it up and gone without. But he’d been so damn eager to please, hadn’t he?
“He must be angling for something.” She said to herself, checking her watch again. The car, probably. Home between semesters, Tom didn’t have transport and had taken to borrowing hers at every opportunity; after finding a third used condom underneath the driver’s seat, she’d put a pretty quick stop to that, but that didn’t stop him asking, wheedling, bargaining or buttering her up like earlier.
“I don’t know why he didn’t just drive.” Amanda paced back and forth. “He doesn’t actually *have* to run everywhere.” Now she was stuck waiting. She probably *could* leave, but didn’t know if he had his house key, and didn’t want to lock the kid out.