Based on the short story Alternatives, by Union Street (?)

Hiya. I’m Matt, your narrator. This story about 34 year old Becca and her son Michael is based on a short story I read years ago. I recently stumbled across it again in Old Joe’s Collection on ASSTR. It wasn’t as good as I remembered, but thank God I found it, because I had always wanted to do an updated version.

I advanced the scenario to 2019, and retooled the characters of mom and Joe to my liking. I also truncated the storyline so everything occurs on the initial reboot. (You’ll understand that when you read the story.) He’s 19, she’s 34. She an overbearing mother; he a rebellious son. They always had a strong but unstated sexual attraction. The wonderful magic amulet still plays a big part.

I have to warn you that despite the strong sexual undercurrent of the story, Alternate Mom has no sex scenes. The only nudity is mom’s bare breasts, which Michael accidentally bares at first, and then Becca does later, as an aid to salvaging their acrimonious relationship.

Also, this story ends abruptly like most my stories do. I tell you this, to avoid being slammed with low scores because the reader is pissed off at the ending. You know what to expect in advance. Score the story fairly, please.

Last thing: I’d like to write a follow up story to Michael and Becca, but only if enough readers are interested. Please see my end note for my email address. If enough people respond favorably, I’ll write a follow up.

Okay, so it was Tuesday, June 11th. It was hot as hell in Phoenix, where Michael went to school, but not bad in Flagstaff. Michael snapped open the beach towel he’d brought out with him and settled it over the chaise lounge. He loved the young Hannah Montana depicted on the front. Fucking more than slutty Miley Cyrus. Admittedly, she had matured somewhat from her appalling Bangerz days. He’d seen her naked all over the Internet. She had a sweet body.

“What time is it?” he asked aloud. “Hey Siri, what time is it?”

“It is 1:33 pm, Michael.”

“Thanks, Siri,” he said. She didn’t answer this time. He gazed around the back yard.

The rear of the property was fenced 9’ high by wood-slat fencing on all three sides. It had to be, due to the pool. He glanced at the water, cleaned that morning by the pool company girl. He’d slept through her visit, a bummer, indeed. She was a sweetie named Jewel. Small-breasted, but adorable in shorts and a bikini top. She didn’t think a lot of Michael. Michael didn’t think a lot of himself. He knew a bum when he saw one.

“I should take off my shorts and sunbathe naked,” he joked. Laughing, he stripped off his t-shirt and sprayed SPF 4 Coppertone up and down his arms, and across his chest, and then rubbed it in. He tackled his legs next, paying special attention to his feet, and then plugged the can into the auto-sprayer. It was his own invention, and sprayed mist across his back, which he distributed evenly with a converted Swifter wand. He knew better than give any part of his skin over to Flagstaff’s intense ultraviolet radiation.

Maybe he should lose the shorts, he thought. No one was home but him. Dad was in Phoenix on business, and Mom ... well, who the fuck knew where Mom was.

“The bushes,” he muttered. Mom had asked him to water the bushed before noon. He’d missed the mark by an hour and a half, but at least he had remembered. Walking to the spigot, he cranked it on and proceeded to water Mom’s precious rose bushes with the green hose. Roses bordered the fences along the eat and west sides, small and neat and impeccably manicured. His mom was a practiced rose person. She was practiced in most everything. Especially bitching at her erstwhile undergrad.

A car door closed around front. He hadn’t heard a car pull into the driveway, but the spray was responsible for that. Was it Mom? Thank God he hadn’t dropped his shorts.

“Better late than never,” she said from the patio door a short time later.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Please cut the grass today.” She eyed the ½” over length grass surrounding the pool and bordering the flower beds. “I can’t afford a landscaper to cut the grass when I have to feed you over the summer, Michael.”

Michael laughed. “Steeling bread from the mouth of some poor wetback’s starving children.” He instantly regretted the expression, especially in light of his own heritage—Mom’s disapproving look, notwithstanding. “Sorry. I apologize for that. What are you doing home?”

“Any luck with a job?”

Michael muttered a curse. “Mom, I’ve been here a week. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

“Tuition is costly. Michael. So are books, supplies, rent on the apartment, your monthly allowance—” He looked at her sharply. “OK. I realized it’s partly your money to begin with—” Michael had matched all 5 white numbers on a Mega Millions drawing a year ago, and won $5 million dollars. “—but you agreed to bank that money and draw on it only for your monthly allowance. We both know you have a sticky-finger’s problem.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said sharply.

She crossed her arms, uncrossed, and then folded them again. “Im glad you remembered to water the bushes. Thank you for that.”

His mom was a knock-out. She had long brown hair, currently up in a loose knot atop her head from the heat. She had brown eyes and the best smile money could buy. (Her smile predated Michael’s good fortune with Mega Millions.) Becca stood 5’10” tall, weighed 141 pounds, and had the figure of a beauty contest winner. Her boobs filled the gray Under Armour sports bra to overflowing; her magical bottom and long legs the matching leggings. A fox, but also a bitch. A 19-year-old’s version of things.

“I can be a vixen sometimes, I know that,” she added.

A female fox, he thought. “No problem. I’ll get the lawn before I do anything else. Why don’t you finish the bushes?”

Mom had her eye on the patio table beside the chaise lounge. “I wish you wouldn’t drink during the day, Michael.” An unopened bottle of Heineken sat in a stainless container of crushed ice.

“I’m not allowed to drink at all,” he quipped. “Gonna call the law on me?”

Her expression tightened. “You shouldn’t take spending the night in jail so lightly, young man. It’s just fortunate you weren’t driving. Arizona State Police take a dim view of drunk students sitting behind the wheel of a 4x4.”

She didn’t know how lucky he was. If not for a mix-up with the keys, and the loss of his fraudulent ID, he’d have been at the wheel, not Corrie. His mistake was mouthing off to the state trooper, and getting them both locked up. Corrie had her license suspended. She’d only got pulled over from Michael’s juvenile antics in the front seat on the way to another party. She didn’t think a lot of him, either.

“Put the beer away, please, Michael.”

“Come on, Mom ... it’s hot! It’ll be a lot hotter after I mow the grass.”

“Your father paid for that beer—” She drank only Samuel Adams. “—and he expects a nice cold beer when he gets home. I looked in the fridge just now ... that’s his last bottle.”

“So, buy him some more!” he said hotly. “I’ll even sticky-finger you a 20 out of my bank account to get it!”

Becca set her lips. “You are 19. You do as you’re told when you’re home, or go find someplace else to stay.”

Now Michael got really mad. “Don’t give me that shit! My money paid off that pool over there, and the mortgage on that house! Both mortgages. It paid for Crystal’s boob job, the reconstructive surgery on Uncle Denny’s legs, and your membership in the country club! I’ll even pay for the fucking boob reduction surgery you keep talking about!”

Becca stepped back, stung. Michael wasn’t finished yet.

“Your brother in law knocked up his secretary. His personal assistant, sorry. My money helped set her up in a Phoenix condo to get her out of sight. The board of regents would take a dim view of the new guy knocking up the help, huh? And what about Aunt Sis and her stint in rehab last year? That cost a pretty penny, didn’t it. Guess who got stuck with half of that because she didn’t have insurance?”

She slapped him, knocking Michael’s sunglasses off his face. They flew 10’ to land atop a rose bush. His reflexive recoil directed a stream of water across her chest, soaking her sports bra. She jumped back, catching her heel on the squirrel proof birdfeeder behind her.

Pin-wheeling, she lost her footing entirely and might have fallen onto the tall stones bordering her flower bed if Michael hadn’t instinctively reached out and grabbed her sports bra. He yanked her erect, in the process ripping the tough elastic material of the shoulder strap, and baring her left breast. Stunned she looked down at her exposed flesh, and Michael’s hand still holding the torn bra.

“Michael!” She shrunk away and squirmed sideways, batting at his hand. This only resulted in Michael accidentally baring her right breast also, over which she squealed and desperately covered up. Or tried to. Mayhem wasn’t done with them yet. Though Michael finally released her bra, her twisting sideways snagged the bird feeder, entangling it in her bra. She stood there, stymied, helplessly exposed and mortified.

“Michael!”

Michael stared at her bare breasts. They were huge. He hadn’t seen her bare-chested except for accidental quick peeks in 15 years, or more.

“Michael!” she cried again, struggling futilely with the feeder. Her struggles only pulled the bra farther down her biceps and back. The left shoulder strap flopped in two pieces. The feeder refused to let go.

“Mom ... stop!”

Panting and panicked, Becca looked up. “Get this thing offa me, Michael! Please?”

He laughed, which helped nothing at all. “You need to hold still.”

“So you can stare at my boobs harder?”

Michael had recovered his impulse control and stopped looking at her bare breasts. He continued to see them peripherally, but his eyes held his mom’s.

“I’m as appalled at seeing your bare boobs, as you at revealing them. I’ll gag if I have to look at them again.”

“Very funny!” she seethed. “Get me offa this fucking thing!”

“The feeder? Or your bra?”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed. “I don’t know! Which do you think would be easier?”

Avoiding contact well as possible with her chest, he maneuvered Becca in one direction, and the intact strap of her sports bra in the other. He deftly freed her from the unwieldy feeder. Turning away, she wiggled the bra into place and arranged her breasts into the cups. She held the broken strap in place with her right hand and turned around.

“I never want to see that on America’s Funniest Home Videos, Michael.” She was acutely embarrassed, red-faced as he’d ever seen her. “I can’t believe that actually happened.”

Despite being slapped and cursed at, Michael was glad it had. “Are you OK? The feeder didn’t cut you, did it?” He glanced at the twisted apparatus. The thin shaft required straightening. She kicked it malevolently.

“Bastard son of Neanderthal blacksmith’s,” she muttered. Yanking it from the ground with her left hand, she hurled it clumsily across the yard. Michael winced as the glass housing struck a stone and shattered, scattering bird seed everywhere.

“Cocksucker,” mom muttered. “Not you. It!” she said, jabbing a finger at the offender. “You are just a bastard!”

She turned and headed inside, stiff-gated and still hugely embarrassed. Michael seldom saw her embarrassed to the point where she’d flee the scene. He was put in mind of some movie featuring Anna Kendrick, an actress specializing in humiliated walk-offs. He snorted when she flipped him the bird over her shoulder. Anna Kendrick would do that also. Anna had never bared her breasts for an audience though, not one comprised of her 19 year old son.

----//----

How do you rip a sports bra, he wondered. Those things were uber-tough, designed for extreme punishment. A defect in the left shoulder strap? It had to be. Just a simple wardrobe malfunction again. But that fucking bird feeder...

Michael steered the Mustang into Silver Spring Plaza and parked near the curio shop at the west end. Gingrich Pawnbrokers occupied the easternmost space, with Anthony’s Pizza, Daryl’s Floral Design, Great Eastern II, and half a dozen more storefronts between them. He’d chosen Silver Spring for the curio shop on the end. Best to offer mom a peace offering when he went home. Or a replacement sports bra.

Her fucking nipples! Thick as his middle finger and half an inch long. He’d no idea Mom had nipples so fucking huge. He understood not detecting them through her sports bra, yeah (designed to prevent embarrassing nipple pokes), but what hid them from sight, otherwise? He constantly noticed nipple pokes in the front of a girl’s shirt, blouse, dress or top. What hid his mom’s?

Leaving the engine running, he Googled ‘nipple pokes’ and discovered the answer: nipple covers. 19 years old, and he’d never heard of the things, or knew such a thing existed. Hitting Images proved an eye-opener: before and after photos of women just like his mom. He wondered what brand she wore.

It wasn’t her nipples alone. The surrounding areola were bright pink, perfectly circular, and silver dollar sized. Unlike many oversized breasts, his mom’s maintained a natural ‘breast shape,’ coming to a point at her nipples, with little discernible sag. Mom was 34 years old; her breasts shouldn’t look like those of a fucking cheerleader. (Which she was, all through school, including college.) It made his cock stiffen embarrassingly.

Curio Sanctum had a long narrow floor plan, 16’ wide by 30’ long. Display cases lined the two long walls, bordered the narrow front door either side. A counter separated the rear of the shop from the retail area. Glass and steel shelves took up the middle space, running down the store’s length. Michael hadn’t been in for a while. He waved at old Mr. Bartholdi, the proprietor.

“Home for summer vacation?” the old gent inquired.

Michael nodded. Like always, the offerings on Mr. Bartholdi’s shelves mystified and intrigued him. He couldn’t get past the first counter. The collection of antique jewelry held him transfixed. Mr. Bartholdi joined him at the counter.

“Something for your mum.” It wasn’t a question.

“We had an embarrassing confrontation this afternoon. I wanna make it up to her, Mr. Bartholdi.”

The proprietor looked 80 years old, was stoop-shoulder, alarmingly thin and bowed. Wispy hair formed a white halo about his skull; antique spectacles perched on his nose. His worn black suit appeared just as ancient as he.

“I have the perfect gift,” Mr. Bartholdi offered. “It’s at the rear counter. Why don’t you accompany me.”

Michael had his eye on an exquisite jade pendant on a thin gold chain. The price was was an exorbitant $798.99, but the pendant looked worth it. He envisioned it around his mother’s neck, accentuating her exorbitant bust-line. He asked to see it, but the old party had walked away, and awaited him at the rear counter. What perfect gift did he want to unload?

Mr. Bartholdi lifted the divider and shuffled behind the rear counter. Withdrawing a key ring of twine with two thin keys, he unlocked a drawer below the counter and withdrew a simple wooden box. Setting the box on the scratched glass, he opened the top to display an even simpler, small silver pendant on a braided leather necklace. The pendant and braided corded looked ancient, and cheap.

“Priceless, by any means.” Mr. Bartholdi withdrew the pendant and held it out for closer examination. Michael noted the silver compass needle mounted in the pendant’s circular recess. It swung randomly with the slightest movement; not magnetic. The pendant was silver, tarnished with age. Why would he purchase this?

Michael cleared his throat. “Very nice, Mr. Bartholdi. But there’s a jade pendant I’d like to look at,” he said. He motioned to the front right-hand counter.

Mr. Bartholdi nodded. “$799.99 for them both. You get my valuable customer discount.”

Michael laughed. “Sold. As soon as I peek behind Door Number One.”

——//——

Michael sat in the car, admiring the jade pendant. The air conditioner was set on Max, struggling to cool the interior. He wasn’t sure the pendant was worth the $798.99 he’d paid, but the ‘priceless’ specimen certainly was worth a dollar. It sat in the plastic bag, forgotten.

Would Becca like it, he wondered? She wasn’t much for jewelry, wore nothing gaudy or pretentious, ever. Her only exception were the half-dozen items he’d purchased for her over the years at the shop, and none were as gaudy as this green pendant. By far, it was the most expensive trinket he’d ever bought her.

“Jesus,” he muttered, “I really wanna fuck you Becca.” Paranoid for saying her name aloud, he grabbed his iPhone from the slot in the dash beneath the radio and checked the screen. He thumbed it on and off, just to make sure. Then he set it on the console.

What to do about mom. He’d never unsee her breasts, never expunge the memory of her extraordinary nipples. They stuck out so far! They were so fat! Her areola were so perfectly circular and pink! He’d die to put one in his mouth, twirl the opposite nipple with his thumb and forefinger, see how big he could force it to grow though arousal. He couldn’t imagine his mother in bed. Couldn’t imagine his father or anyone having her. She had him at 15 years old. Dad had her for 15 years, possibly even longer. Michael couldn’t imagine owning those huge breasts and nipples for 15 fucking years.

“God,” he moaned. “I really want to fuck you, Becca. I want to put your breasts in my mouth. I want to hold them. I want to hold you forever.”

His iPhone pinged. Irritated, he grabbed it up to flip to switch back to silent. It already was pushed down, showing red. What the fuck?

He read the alert on the screen. “I can help you with that,” it read.

“Help me with what?” he wondered aloud.

Ping! “Score with your mother.”

He jerked and shot panic-glances all around. The only person in sight was a stout woman in black workout’s walking a Pekinese.

He croaked: “Who are you? What are you doing? Did you hack my phone?”

The iPhone pinged: “I hacked it using the Bluetooth function. Don’t turn it off.”

Michael had thought of doing exactly that. He hesitated. “This is a prank, right? Perry, is that you? Cut out this fucking horseshit, you asshole!”

The iPhone pinged again: “Take me out of the bag, Michael. Put me around your neck. You don’t want to chance losing me.”

Michael stared at the white bag. “W-what?” he stammered.

The phone remained silent. Picking up the bag, he withdrew the pewter pendant—that’s what it was, pewter!—and discovered the silver needle pointed directly at his chest. No matter where he moved the pendant, the needle remained pointed at his chest. It was an amulet, not a pendant, he realized.

“I’m not putting this on!” he croaked.

The iPhone pinged: “You have to, in order for the amulet to work.”

“Fuck that!” he choked, rolling down the window with feverish intensity.

“Don’t throw me away! Return the amulet to Mr. Bartholdi if it scares you too badly. He’ll refund your dollar, and free you of ownership.”

“Ownership?” Michael croaked.

“Until you transfer ownership through sale, the amulet is yours. You don’t want it in another person’s hands. That could be very bad for you, Michael.”

Michael gulped loudly. “How ‘bout we just ... keep it like this for now?” He gripped the leather cord in his hand. “That okay?”

“For now, yes.”

Michael thought of nothing to say for a long minute. Finally, he cleared his throat. “What do I call you?”

“Anything you want. I have no name, in the tradition of human identification.”

Michael fell silent again. “What do you want?”

“I offer alternate outcomes to unfortunate occurrences.”

“Say what?”

The iPhone pinged twice. A crow perched nearby on a tree limb flew off with a raucous cry. The phone pinged twice again, and the crow was back on the limb, spastically preening its wings. Michael shook his head with his eyes scrunched closed.

“What do you want?” he repeated hoarsely.

“The same thing as you. To accomplish that, put the amulet around your neck.”

“No fucking way,” Michael croaked. “You’re going back inside, and I’m getting my money back!”

“Fine with me, Michael. Consider the consequences, though.”

“What consequences?”

“You don’t get to fuck your mother.”

—-//—-

He tried to fathom the conversation. Was he nuts? Suffering hallucinations, or a flashback? He’d popped mesc over the fall and winter, but not since March. He’d tripped twice on acid in January. That meant nothing with flashbacks, however. Flashbacks could occur at any time, even years later with acid.

“This is so fucked up. How do I know you’re real?”

The iPhone pinged twice and a yellow VW Beetle convertible drove by. The second time, its cute driver had the top down. Michael rubbed his face disbelievingly.

“What can you do? Besides make birds fly, and cars drive by?”

“Put the amulet around your neck, and find out.”

Michael did as instructed. At the same moment the amulet hit his chest, he returned to his back yard.

—-//—-

He squealed like a little girl, whirling about, tripping over his feet. His iPhone claimed it was 1:33 pm. He stood beside the chaise lounge, wearing what he had on in the car. He clutched the white plastic bag in his hand; the jade pendant was elsewhere.

“What the fuck?” he screeched.

The iPhone pinged: “Compose yourself. Becca is five minutes away. Put away the beer, change your clothes, and water her rose bushes.”

The phone pinged again. “A better idea would be to put a Sam Adams in the cooler, and leave it on the counter for her. Along with a rose.”

“Jesus,” he muttered distractedly. “You’re trying to get me killed.” Nonetheless, he grabbed up the stainless container, dashed to the small workbench beside the house, and exchanged the container for a pair of shears. Selecting a nice specimen with perfectly preserved petals, he measured down 6” and wincing, cutting the stem. It certainly was a fragrant item. Disconcerted, he rushed the container and rose into the house.

When Becca opened the patio door at 1:43 pm, Michael stood with his back to the house, studiously watering her plants. His heart slammed against his breastbone, and he feared arterial rupture from blood pressure spike. He couldn’t stretch his mind about this time travel shit. Where the fuck was his car? What happened to the outrageously expensive jade pendant he’d bought? Why had he cut one his mom’s prized roses?

“You remembered, at least. There’s an improvement, Michael.”

Startled despite himself, Michael snapped a look over his shoulder, spraying the slat wood fence. “Hey, there you are! I didn’t expect you so soon.”

She carried her open Sam Adams in one hand, and an unopened Heineken in the other.

“Sorry about the late watering; I was job-hunting and lost track of time,” he lied.

Becca grinned widely. “You can make up for it by cutting the grass. Oh!” she said, surprised, spotting the mower. “You are so diligent today! I forgive you for raping my poor rose bush.”

She had clipped and tucked the rose behind her left ear. Michael fixed on it, avoiding more than a quick glance at her breasts. He noted her sports bra appeared healthy, if slightly overwhelmed. Oddly, she wore tight black shorts now, rather than black leggings. God, she had beautiful, long legs.

“Here.” She handed him the beer.

Michael remembered his sunglasses, wondering where they were. He could sure use them now. Watching peripherally as Becca idly inspected her rose bushes, sipping Sam Adams from the bottle, bending gracefully, he longed to stare at her bottom and long legs. He couldn’t do that without his missing Foster Grants. He’d paid $70.00 for those damned sunglasses. Luckily, Becca hadn’t broken them with the slap.

As relationships went, theirs was contentious. He’d rebelled against her statutes as early as 8 years old; prior to that, he was a momma’s boy.

She’d had him at 15, falling pregnant with Michael at a pool party at a friend’s house during summer vacation. She was only 14, and already cursed with gazonga boobs. The boy who got her pregnant was not his dad—or more rightly, his step-father. Things hadn’t worked out between Becca and Connor Clayton, not at all. He died in 2001, when Michael was only one, driving drunk after a raucous party. Michael never knew his biological father at all.

Becca came from money, and married money. Francis Brock’s parents owned an investment bank in Phoenix, another in Santa Fe, and various holdings throughout the south. Francis was 25, and Becca 23, in 2008, when the bank crisis wiped out $144 billion in US assets. Frank and Becca went broke, as did Frank’s parents. Both investment banks defaulted, and Frank lost his job. Becca lost her florist shop. Michael was removed from private school, and placed in Marshall Elementary to complete 3rd grade. He’d graduated from Flagstaff High in 2018. His Mega Millions winnings helped save the family.

He purchased the ticket legally on his 18th birthday, March 9, 2018, at a 7-11 in Tempe. He spent $15, totaling 5 numbers at $2.00 each. The third number on the ticket matched the first 5 digits of the drawing, excluding the vital Mega Millions number at the end. He’d splurged and gone for the Megaplier option on impulse buying the ticket: his winnings totaled 5x the standard $1 million prize. He was an instant millionaire. So were his parents, in effect, if not by cause.

They insisted he choose the annuity option, insuring 26 years of moderate wealth, with comfortable income of $192,308.00 per year, before taxes. Michael had fought this absurd suggestion, but fortunately lost. Michael would never worry for money again.

The Brock’s had mostly recovered by 2018, but Michael’s birthday windfall eased the strain of sending him to college. Frank and Becca paid 70% of his direct expenses in Phoenix; Michael picked up the 30% balance, with legitimate tertiary expenses split 50/50 between him and his folks. He’d splurged—of course, he did, the 2018 Mustang being a shining example. He also helped offset expenses for the rest of the family, hence his unfortunate outburst, earlier. Only, it hadn’t even happened yet, had it?

The jade pendant, he thought. Too bad he hadn’t discovered it back in March, when he’d bought the aquamarine earrings. Mr. Bartholdi had sold him the earrings at a price significantly less than the $798.99 price tag of the jade pendant. Was it in his car? Back in the display case at Mr. Bartholdi shop? It still held promise as a birthday present, next year.

Michael shared Mom’s birthday: Becca was born in 1985, Michael in 2000, a millennium boy. From 2008 on, things grew difficult in the Brock household. Not that Becca wasn’t a strict parent before. Francis’s strong income prior to the crash, along with the safety net provided by his parents and hers, smoothed the way as money always did in domestic situations: reducing friction, and promoting good will. The lube dried up in 2008, however, the way it did when you fucked a girl’s ass.

Terrific metaphor, he thought. You are such an asshole, Michael.

“Hey!” he yelled, snapping the spray gun in her direction. She skipped away with a squeal.

“You creep! Stop that!” Laughing, she danced away as he sprayed toward her again. He told himself it wasn’t simply to watch her boobs jounce wildly, which they wouldn’t anyway, encased in the sports bra. “You asshole!” she yelled as he flicked at her again.

“You know, Mom...” Was the Mustang in the driveway, he wondered? It wasn’t what he wanted to ask her, anyway.

“I won’t fall for a ploy to get me in range, Michael.”

He directed the spray of water around her feet and then behind her to the right. She was well within range. He remembered the soaked condition of her sports bra, before it malfunctioned.

“You should check the shoulder of your bra. That side,” he said, indicating her left shoulder with a close spray of water. “I think it’s ripped. Maybe along a seam or something.”

Dropping the sprayer, he approached, noting her questioning expression, obviously wondering what trick he had up his sleeve. He certainly wasn’t above pranking his old mom. He held up his hands. “I come in peace.”

Stopping far enough away to avoid invading her personal space, but close enough to inspect the construction of her bra, he noted the defect. “Let me get a picture of this,” he said, withdrawing his iPhone.

Twisting, she gazed over her shoulder curiously. Michael smelled the cachet of her perfume, or lotion, or whatever she had on her skin that smelled so good. “Lavender,” he thought, snapping a photo of the strap.

He showed her the screen. The strap had a defectively stitched seam just behind the shoulder, where it joined the strap coming up from behind.

“Hmmm,” she said. “That’s not good. I could end up with a wardrobe malfunction. An embarrassing one,” she added, examining the bra’s design and construction. “How did you ever see that, Michael?”