A Loving Mother 1
I let out a loud sigh. The salad bowl managed to fall off the counter and shatter on the kitchen floor. This, of course, sent pieces of glass, lettuce, carrots and everything else all over the tile and even under the dishwasher. Great. I knew my son Tim would be here any minute and I wanted us to have a nice dinner alone. But after getting back from the gym and this fiasco, I would lucky if I was out of the shower when he got here.
I started to sweep angrily. My husband was gone again. Always business and always for more than a few days. I looked up at the mirror over the sink (it was my cheap replacement for actually having a window there) and frowned. I was 37 years old. My hair was still dark, my skin was nice (I thought) and my breasts were not hanging to my stomach. I went to the gym four times a week and managed to weigh almost the same as my wedding day. I smiled in the mirror—I remembered the time one of Tim's friends called me a milf. At first I was angry, I didn't know what it was but it sounded like something bad. But after using the internet to look it up, it made me blush. The point was: what the hell was my husband's problem?
I scooped the debris into a bag then put the broom away. Then I felt some glass still on the floor so I got down to get it. It had managed to still be spread out—even under the sink. I sighed and started grabbing at it with my fingers. The last time we had sex was almost a month ago. A whole month. I did things in the bedroom must husbands would dream about, but he just didn't seem interested. I scratched at the floor with my nails and smiled. I thought of the first time we had anal sex. He couldn't believe I wanted to try it—he was so sweet then. I thought of the last time I had an orgasm—now that seemed like ages ago. Even with all our toys, gels and outfits...something was missing.
I crawled under the sink and felt around for the remaining debris. Of course I pleased myself when he wasn't there. I mean I had to. But I never counted those orgasms as "real". I smiled when I thought of my son Tim coming over. He was just 18, handsome and so sensitive. I used to think he was a spitting image of his father, now I didn't think they could be any more different. I wondered if Tim had a girlfriend, or what he was doing. I loved being his mom. When I thought about him my mood changed and I smiled as I did my best to get every piece of that salad from under the sink.
I became aware that someone was behind me so I wiggled back wondering if it was Ella the maid. I got my shoulders out from under the sink and looked back. To my surprise it was Tim. He stood leaning against the doorway looking at me with a half-smile.
"Oh...hey dear," I said embarrassed to have my butt sticking up at him. I realized that my running pants were slipping and I am sure he could see my thong.
"Hey mom," he replied not moving, but still watching me.
I turned around and sat on the floor, wiping my hands on the dish towel hanging from the handle. "I was stupid and knocked the salad on the floor." I said, trying to act casual. "So here I am on my hands and knees trying to clean it up before you got here."
"It's no problem," he said—strangely quiet.
He was wearing his work out clothes too and then I saw it: a rather large bulge in his sweat pants. I felt my face blush. Did he get that looking at me? But I am his mother?