“Um, ok?” He said, then: “I thought everything was OK after last night.” He shifted uncomfortably. Amanda laid one hand on his leg, and her skirt crept in a millimeter higher, confirming the black band that encircled her smooth thigh.
“Honey,” she said, “everything is fine. I just wanted to ask you: did you really go to the drugstore the other day?”
“Of course I did,” Tom said, straightening up. His mother’s hand slid up his muscled thigh. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious,” his mother reassured him. “They are so different from my usual brand, I wanted to go back and pick up a second pack. You bought them at the store around the corner, right?” Tom couldn’t meet her gaze, and let his eyes drift back down to her legs instead. The pattern, like snakeskin, flashed across the nylon; it twisted and turned it moved along her stems, like something alive.
“Bought?” He asked. Sweat appeared at the fringe of his shaggy brown hair. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” Amanda raised one carefully shaped eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
Tom looked miserable for a moment. His mother’s hand slid a little higher. He bit his lip, then appeared to make up his mind.
“Well,” he began, “this is how it is.” He told Amanda all about the old woman with the crazy eyes and the unmarked package and how she’d dropped it but wouldn’t take it back.
“I see,” she said, not sure what to make of it. It couldn’t be true, not really, but she wasn’t about to call her only son a liar. “Well, I guess that’s it for that, then.” Amanda gave him a squeeze and stood up. Tom lay there, half covered by the sheets, chiseled chest golden in the morning sunlight. His hands were somewhere under the covers. She straightened the hem of her skirt.
“Now be good,” Amanda said, looking around at the mess. “And clean up this pig sty of a room before I get home, okay?” His eyes were glued to her legs as they fed into mirror-black pumps, calves standing out beneath silky sheer stockings.
“Yes, mom.” He said. His left arm moved, just a little, under the sheets.
“Good boy,” she said. Her voice was warm. Amanda leaned in and kissed her son on the forehead, tasting his sweat. Her lips lingered a few seconds longer than necessary. A shiver ran through Tom.
She turned and left, the skirt of her dress wrapped tightly around her hips, hem dancing around her upper thighs. She didn’t see Tom’s hand reaching under his pillow to extract something.
The day passed. Amanda relished the sense of freedom the stockings granted, the air swirling under her skirt as her skin tingled beneath the nylon. Brad/Chad came by to ask a series of increasingly-distracted questions about his project as he stared at the older woman’s legs, trying not to be obvious about getting a glimpse up her dress while she crossed and recrossed them for his viewing pleasure. In Brad/Chad’s defense, she made it spectacularly difficult to do otherwise, perched on the edge of her desk, dangling one heel while her stockings glimmered. Amanda was happy to see that her efforts had the desired effect, as evidenced by the obvious bulge in his tailored pants as he left.