Balancing Act - Part 11

 

The late afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows across the kitchen. Dad was out, running an errand, and the house was blissfully quiet. This was my time. Alone in Mom’s body, I let myself revel in the strange, intoxicating ownership.

At the sink, I set my hands under a stream of running water, watching the way her fingers—my fingers—caught the light, the skin gathered at the knuckle, the gold band burning at the third finger, left hand. I made a fist, then opened it, spreading the fingers wide. There was no trace of my former hands, those angular, adolescent claws. These were smaller, supple, tipped with perfect half-circles of nail. I ran the nails over the inside of my wrist, delighting in the electric shiver it drew up my arm.

The blouse Mary always wore while gardening was a thin, ancient cotton, nearly transparent when wet. I splashed a little water on the front, watching it go dark and cling to the subtle rise of her chest.

Beneath it, the pale-pink bra—her favorite, I knew, because I’d watched her wear it on lazy Sundays—flattened the outline of her breast just enough to be respectable, but not enough to hide the shape. The lace was slightly worn at the seams, a few fraying threads where the cup met the strap, but it held. I could feel every stitch, every subtle compression, every change in pressure as I rolled my shoulders or breathed too deeply.

I’d been in this body only a few days—three, if I counted the day of the accident—but I already moved with her practiced efficiency. My prior self would have watched this performance with astounded horror: the fluidity, the absence of hesitation. But it was inevitable, the way I was learning to fill her out. 

The first exploration had been tentative, awkward, driven by shame and a lurking sense of catastrophic mistake. But with every new minute in this body, the shame lessened, replaced by a heady, almost narcotic sense of entitlement. I was allowed to touch, to probe, to push the boundaries; it was mine, mine, for however long I could keep the secret.

I brought her hands—my hands now—to her hips, feeling the familiar curve, the slight outward flare. I let my thumbs brush over the sensitive line of her stomach, just above the waistband of her shorts.

I let my thumb slip inside, hinting at a trespass, and felt the muscle beneath tense and release. My eyes drifted down, watching her body move under my command, seeing the subtle way the shorts clung to her thighs. My legs—a woman’s legs, my woman’s legs—shifted of their own accord, bracing against the coolness of the tile.

I was so lost in this act of possession that I barely heard the soft scuff of a shoe in the hallway. I froze, hand still pressed under the waistband, and pivoted toward the sound. In the doorway, leaning against the frame, was my old self—my mother, in my teenage body.

I could have stopped then, defused it all with a joke or an apology, but something in Mom’s face—something like a challenge, bottomless and wild—held me in place. I let myself smile, a slow, sly lift of the lips. I watched her (him) watch me.

I reached up to fix my hair, gathering the loose strands at the nape of my neck, exposing the full line of my throat and collarbone. The blouse slipped lower, the wet cotton tightening around my breasts, and I watched her eyes track the motion, unable to stop herself. I felt the ghost of a smile rise on my face, a slow, secret curling at the edge of the lips.

And then, impossibly, Mom smiled, too, as if quietly daring me to keep going.

“Hot today,” I said, and the sound of my new voice startled me, deeper and steadier than I’d intended.

I pulled the delicate fabric slightly to the side, revealing more of the upper curve of her breast, the smooth skin of her décolletage. I held Mom’s eyes the entire time, letting the silent question reverberate: How far are you going to let me go?

“You look good,” she egged me on.

The question pulsed at the base of my throat: Why would she want this? In all the years of my old life, I’d never seen my mother encourage even a hint of impropriety—not from herself, not from me, not from anyone. And yet, here she was, standing in the kitchen in my old body, brown hair pulled back, arms crossed over her chest, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk gathering at the edge of her mouth, daring me to keep going.

Was this some kink of hers, some previously undiscovered maternal perversion? Or was it a lesson?

The possibilities tangled together in my mind: she was teaching me something, or punishing me, or taking a secret, unholy delight in seeing what I would become if left to my own devices, if handed the keys to her kingdom.

But maybe that’s all just after-the-fact justification. Maybe it didn’t matter at all. The important thing was the permission—the knowing, permissive look that made me feel both deeply scrutinized and unspeakably free. She wanted to see what I’d do. Whether it was a test, a game, or a power play, I’d been given the green light.

The shame that had gripped my heart in those first days—the shame of being caught, of being exposed—was dissolving. In its place, something else was blooming. Something I had no name for.

My fingers, trembling at first, resumed their slow and deliberate undoing. I undid the third button, then the fourth, the expanse of chest and the pale-pink bra beneath growing more vivid with every movement. My breasts—her breasts—pushed forward, proud and unashamed, the freckles scattered across the upper curve catching the afternoon light. I watched my mother’s eyes follow, sharp and hungry and utterly without judgment. She wanted me to keep going.

I wanted it, too.

I flicked the fourth button open, feeling a thrill in the silence as the blouse widened, revealing the bra's inner curve and freckles on my upper breast. I slowly adjusted the bra strap, exposing more of the soft, trembling flesh, ensuring she saw every moment.

I unbuttoned the last, bottom button and let the blouse hang loose, the thin cotton falling away from my stomach.

And then she spoke.

“Mommy… what do you think you’re doing?”

At that, I almost flinched. But a smile had gathered in her—his—my old face, wicked and knowing, like she’d caught me with a hand in the cookie jar and had decided not only to leave it there, but to stuff the entire jar into my palm.

I kept my voice steady, placing my hand lovingly on her cheek, just as she would, “What’s it look like?”

She raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, “Looks like my mother’s a little bit of an exhibitionist.”

I leaned back against the counter, letting the blouse swing open wide enough for her to see the whole front panel of the bra. My nipples—her nipples—straining, clearly visible through the worn fabric.

She crossed the linoleum, closing the distance between us in four steady steps, until we were facing each other across a thin, invisible line.

“You put on my perfume,” she said again—not as accusation but as something closer to invitation.

She could smell herself on me from this distance.

I shrugged very slightly, letting hair slip over one shoulder so it grazed her arm, “Seemed appropriate.”

My heart thudded somewhere between my knees. I held her gaze, daring her to make the next move. It was a contest now, a staring match to see who broke character first. She didn’t. Neither did I.