“Uh,” he said, vaguely. “No?”
“You’re sure?” She said again; she could have sworn she *just* saw the pattern shimmering along her calf.
“Yeah,” Tom replied, not looking away. “I’m sure.”
“Good.” Amanda straightened up, adjusting her modest, below-the-knee skirt. Tom’s face still a little far away. She looked around the kitchen, where stacks of discarded bowls and spoons and spilt milk greeted her. “I’m out of here. Try to clean this up, will you? And wake up, for god’s sake!”
“Sure, yeah sure.” Tom said, then he seemed to wake up. He blinked, sat up straight, then: “hey mom, if it’s alright, I was wondering if I could borrow the car Sat-”
The front door banged shut. She was already gone.
—
Work turned out to be pretty good that day. If anybody noticed the pattern in her hose, nobody mentioned it, not even that old bag at the top. In fact, if anything, everybody seemed just a little bit nicer to her, just a little bit more willing to accede to her requests. She really would have gotten a lot accomplished if she hadn’t been so distracted. It wasn’t her fault, really. It just so happened that every time she sat down in her office, her thighs would rub together with that delicious swish, and the sensation of nylon on nylon would send a little thrill up through her; so she’d rub them together again, just a little, and that wonderful woken-nerve-ending feeling would ripple up and down her legs, from her toes on up to her thighs. Next thing she knew, fifteen minutes would pass and there she’d be, just rubbing her legs together.
They just felt so *good*! Amanda couldn’t help herself; and it’s not as if she had missed anything she couldn’t catch up on tomorrow.
She was in a happy daze when she got home, coming in through the front door, not hearing Tom’s shouted greeting as she leapt up the stairs. Really, she it was almost *too* happy a daze; she realized, coming in through her bedroom door. There must be something going on with the pantyhose.
Amanda kicked off her flats, and stood in front of the mirror again. She turned her leg back and forth, watching the subtle gleam. The 43-year old mom lifted up the hem of her skirt, raising it up until it was dancing around her thighs, and watching herself in the glass. Her legs shimmered and there- was that it? Was that the pattern, crawling behind her knee? She turned, as the gleam twisted around her thigh, heading upwards. Her hem followed.
“Hey mom, I wanted to-” Tom walked in through the door. Amanda scowled at herself in the mirror. Not at her legs, though. They looked even better now than they had this morning, all wrapped up in their clingy nylon, dark fabric shadowing every hollow and curve of her stems. Tom’s mom perched up on her tiptoes, watching the muscles bunch. Maybe heels tomorrow?
“I didn’t thank you for getting me these this morning,” she said, turning this way and that. “They’re not what I asked for, but they’re great. *Really* nice. So, thank you. You’re a good boy, Tom.”
“I know,” he said, distantly. “That’s what the lady sa-”