“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.
“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.
“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.
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