Rummaging Through
Back to me, she leaned deep into the closet, rustling through drawers. The sound of fabric scraping grated on my nerves. Time suspended. What was she seeking? Those panties? My paper bag lay hidden in the document drawer—would she find it? Suffocating panic seized me. "Mom," I croaked, voice tight, "looking for something? Need help?" "No!" came her muffled, irritable reply from within. After minutes, she straightened, clutching a yellowed undershirt.
"David’s Undershirt"
"Found it!" She shook out the shirt with satisfaction. "Weather’s warming—David always prefers this old one. Breathable!" she declared matter-of-factly, stuffing it into her bag. Without a glance, she exited the bedroom. She hadn’t touched other drawers, seemingly here only for the shirt. Leaning against the doorframe, sweat drenched my back. Holding that shirt, she passed me—bag swinging—expression smugly righteous.
Passing Glance
As if entering her son’s bedroom and rifling through his closet were natural rights. Her scent—cheap soap and vintage cold cream—lingered in my nostrils. Watching her leave, the nausea intensified. Later that night, David murmured on the balcony past eleven. Voice low yet distinct in the silence.
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Back to me, she leaned deep into the closet, rustling through drawers. The sound of fabric scraping grated on my nerves. Time suspended. What was she seeking? Those panties? My paper bag lay hidden in the document drawer—would she find it? Suffocating panic seized me. "Mom," I croaked, voice tight, "looking for something? Need help?" "No!" came her muffled, irritable reply from within. After minutes, she straightened, clutching a yellowed undershirt.
"David’s Undershirt"
"Found it!" She shook out the shirt with satisfaction. "Weather’s warming—David always prefers this old one. Breathable!" she declared matter-of-factly, stuffing it into her bag. Without a glance, she exited the bedroom. She hadn’t touched other drawers, seemingly here only for the shirt. Leaning against the doorframe, sweat drenched my back. Holding that shirt, she passed me—bag swinging—expression smugly righteous.
Passing Glance
As if entering her son’s bedroom and rifling through his closet were natural rights. Her scent—cheap soap and vintage cold cream—lingered in my nostrils. Watching her leave, the nausea intensified. Later that night, David murmured on the balcony past eleven. Voice low yet distinct in the silence.
NEXT >>
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