“It’s not *that* far,” she said, checking her watch again. Then there was a clatter downstairs as somebody blew through the front door; heavy feet thudded up the stairs.
“Got ’em!” Her son shouted as he reached the top. “I got ’em, mom! Here!” He thrust a package into her waiting hands.
Amanda turned it over. “This isn’t my usual brand. There’s nothing on this. Did you even get the right size?”
Tom shrugged. “I just asked the lady at the store. She gave ’em to me.”
She pulled them out of the package. Black nylon hung limp from her fist. “Well, they’re the right colour, anyway.” He was watching her, expectant. “Thank you.” She said, then drew herself up to her full five-foot-nothing height and looked up into her tall, lanky son’s hazel eyes. “Get out so I can put these on, will you?”
“Shit! Sorry mom, sorry.” Tom wheeled around and clomped down the stairs. She shut the door behind him, and sat down on her bed. Amanda stuck one hand inside the hose and stretched out her fingers; they looked like mid-denier opaques with just a hint of sheen and-
“What the hell?” She bent close to her hand. In the weave of the fabric, there appeared to be a subtle, winding pattern, almost like snakeskin. It was barely visible, but definitely there. She huffed. There was no way the old bag at the office would let her get away with patterned damn hose. She closed her eyes and imagined the snide, barely-heard comments about side-stepping dress code and a certain local manager’s upcoming promotion. But going without would be worse. Amanda flexed her fingers in the hose experimentally; they *felt* good, anyway. Better than her usual cheap l’eggs stuff. Much better.
8:34, read the clock. Fuck it, she decided, easing one foot into the waistband of the hose. A shiver ran through her body. Whoa. They felt even better going on; as she drew them up her leg, Amanda felt as though the nerve endings in her skin were coming alive for the first time.
“Holy shit,” she muttered, pulling them up over her thighs and pert little butt. As the waistband snapped into place, a tiny gasp escaped her mouth. Amanda looked at herself in the mirror. At her diminutive height, her legs weren’t long, but they had been sculpted through a tireless regime of morning runs and yoga. They looked great even on a normal day, but today they looked spectacular. She flexed one leg, turning this way and that. There was a slight glimmer in the morning light, and she could have sworn she saw something, the pattern crawling up her toned thigh. Now it was gone.
She shook her head, brushed her auburn hair out of her eyes, slipped into a pair of black flats and down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Tom was bent low over a bowl of Cheerios, reading the sports page.
“Hey,” she said. “I told you *plain* black pantyhose. These are patterned or something.”
“Sorry mom.” Milk dropped out of his mouth to splatter in the bowl.
“Can you see it?” She asked. “Is it obvious? Look at me!” Amanda extended one shapely leg toward her son. He glanced up from his cereal, or tried to, as his gaze locked on his mother’s leg. Amanda watched as his eyes lost focus for a moment. “Hey, wake up! Can you see anything?” She waggled her leg back and forth. The subtle sheen glimmered.