I was living at home again, 18, after just six months in college. I hadn't liked it, hadn't done well, and had gladly accepted my mother's invitation to come back home after the first semester. It was just her and me -- she had divorced my stepdad a year before, during my senior year at high school -- and everything was going very well. We always got along amazingly well, since I was her youngest and favorite, and she had pretty much raised me by herself after Dad died when I was a kid. She had remarried, but he was a jerk and never much of a father anyway, and she still spent more time with me than him. I moved back into my old room, got a job and just worked. I dated occasionally, and so did she. Every other weekend or so she would get dressed up and go out with a friend to a bar or somewhere. She would have too much to drink occasionally, and need to get dropped off, or call me for a ride. I usually didn't mind, since I was staying rent-free, and life was pretty good.
One Friday night -- well, early Saturday morning -- the phone rang. 3:00 a.m. I had worked a long shift and was dead asleep. Normally, waking up puts me in a foul mood and this was no exception. I sighed and answered the phone and, sure enough, it was my mother, voice slurring, asking if I could come pick her up, the whole speech punctuated by drunken giggles and apologies. I said sure, no problem, and asked where she was. She tried to tell me how to get where she was but was having trouble, and I could hear her ask someone to give me directions. To my surprise, a man's voice was on the other end, giving out street names. Normally, Mom might end up at a girlfriend's house or something, but this was the first time I needed to go to a man's house to get her. Something about it made my mood even worse, as some feeling -- protection, possessiveness, something -- added to my normal surliness. I wrote down the directions and curtly thanked the man and hung up.
I grabbed the keys to her car -- they were still there, since she got picked up by her friend Donna -- which I was allowed to drive on occasions such as this. It was a Corvette, a gorgeous machine, and I loved driving it every chance I could. As I drove, I started thinking about my mother and this guy, whoever he was. He probably picked her up at the bar and took her back to his place after closing time, thinking he was going to get lucky. She probably had a couple of drinks, maybe kissed him or fooled around a little -- why that surge of feeling again? -- and then decided to head out. The guy was probably pissed, but I wasn't worried -- some 50-year-old bar swinger didn't scare me, and if he so much as looked at my mother wrong I'd hand him his ass.
I found the address and swung into the driveway -- it was a nice place -- and saw my mother standing on the sidewalk waiting for me. The guy was standing behind her, arms crossed, and definitely looked pissed. I could see why. Mom was 41, but after the divorce really put some work into her shape. She always had long legs and slim feet, even when she had let herself go, and she had gotten implants after my dad had died. Now divorced and trimmed down, I could safely say she was hot -- and would tell her, too -- and her wardrobe had changed to reflect it. Now, she pretty much always wore skirts, hose, and heels to work and when she went out, and her blouses somehow always kept unbuttoning themselves to expose some cleavage -- not a lot, just enough to get the mind thinking about it. She was pretty, no knockout, but pretty enough with long, thick auburn hair and a cute smile. Tonight, she was wearing a shimmery silver top, half unbuttoned, a navy skirt that went to mid-thigh, pantyhose, and matching navy 3" heel pumps. I knew this guy would need a cold shower tonight.
