The two young women regarded each other carefully., as one would study a reflection in a full length mirror. One turned out her ankle and the other did the same and watched how the calf flexed. They were both wearing shorts, but not the same kind-one had jean shorts cut high enough that the pockets showed below the ragged hem. The other wore nylon athletic shorts that were similarly short.
He suddenly remembered his mother in a bra and panties (he had to have been six or seven because they still lived in the apartment) twisting and turning to catch all views of herself in the long mirror on the back of her bedroom door. As she modeled, he lay on her bed pretending to read a book about the Confederate general Jeb Stuart. The book was over his head by a good couple of years but he was drawn to it in the library by the painting on the cover of a dashing figure on a horse riding through gunfire. But all he could think about was the crack of his mother’s butt which he could see as a dark line through her sheer panties.
The two women were remarkably similar in build at least from the waist down and they studied one another’s legs carefully, each twisting and turning.
“We’re not the same person,” said the one in the athletic shorts.
“Who said we were?” answered the other.
“Your breasts are bigger than mine”, said athletic shoes having turned to profile to better evaluate.
Both were braless in T-shirts, one gray, one black.
“Your breasts are fine”, said jean shorts with a sweet smile.
“Easy for you to say,” athletic shorts answered, her gaze squarely on the other’s breasts.
“Anything more than a mouthful is wasted, right?” jean shorts said with the same-maybe even wider- smile.
“Where’d you hear that?” athletic shorts said quickly.
“Frankie says it all the time…”
“He does”, she answered.
“Any luck on that front?” she asked, still smiling with a bit of concern.
“He’s coming around”, she answered in a tone that conveyed the opposite.
“Frankie’s a stubborn one.” jeans short said.
Hearing his name mentioned aloud in what had to be a dream caused Frank to stir. And when he did the slight pain in his shoulder from having fallen asleep on the couch was enough to bring him fully awake. He was in the garage, the flickering fluorescent above the workbench casting a dim blue that didn’t cut much of the darkness. He had no idea what time it was, but he could still smell Teena. She couldn’t have been gone long.
He sighed and sat up, dropping his feet onto the concrete floor, only then realizing he had an erection. He reflected on his tent pole sullenly hoping it was from the two women in his dream and not of the memory of his mother in her underwear.
“Oh well”, he sighed, rising. “Nothing to be done…”. He pushed himself down the leg of his jeans and picked his way through the clutter toward the door.