'That's Suzy, our daughter, and her man. They're going on to Vegas.'
I didn't rise to the 'our daughter' bit. I didn't believe it and Pammy never asked for a DNA test. I rethought. Pammy did always have the worst of crushes on me.
'I'll give you a few days, Pammy.'
She positively glowed. With the briefest of waves, the car ground into reverse and headed out. I took a step back allowing the door to open. Pammy entered.
She started to speak, maybe to say thanks. I shook my head.
'Put your bag down by the door,' I said and took her arm to lead her to the center of the room. 'You said anything?'
She started to speak again but I held up a hand.
'Stand here. Be silent. I wish to look at you.'
And, that's what she did. I sat on my couch and that's what I did. I looked. Pammy looked away apprehensive again. She did not think she was pretty but she wanted to be thought of as pretty. She shifted from one foot to the other. She reached to clutch herself by the elbows but dropped her arms allowing me to see her. Waiting.
She'd cut her half-red half-blonde hair nicely at shoulder length. Her face, showing all that Kansas blood, was handsome more than pretty, straight nose, heavy jaw, nice lips, pale. She wore a button up plaid shirt, a short light green skirt, and old white tennis shoes. Nice legs not thick, not skinny, an appealing tiny scar showed on her left knee. Legs not showing her age. She had to be in her middle thirties by now.
'Turn sideways,' I said. She did. I noticed her effort to draw in her stomach. I also noticed that her breasts seemed a bit larger than I remembered. She shifted her weight to the leg away from me and bended her other knee. Pammy did not know what to do with her hands. That fidgeting was alluring.
'Turn toward the front door,' she turned to face away from me. I still liked her hips, full and squared, made for fucking and making babies. The backs or her thighs were still nice, only the shadows of a bit of cellulite. She kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The hip swaying turned into poetry.
'Turn back to me,' she did. 'Unbutton your shirt. Slowly.'
Again, Pammy turned her eyes from me, this time looking down at the floor. One at a time, the buttons parted. She started to pull her shirt open.
'Don't. Drop your arms.'
Pammy obeyed. Pammy was not ripped. She was not porn star buff. She was a woman. Under her navel, an inny, the smallest of a belly rode above the waist of her skirt. Her bra peeked at me a bit, white, a touch of frill, not new. She still swayed back and forth her knees bending and unbending almost coyly.
'You may take off the shirt. Drop it on the floor.'
She reached to pull the front apart, shrugged out of the shirt, then reached out with her right hand and dropping it to the floor. Her breasts were in fact a bit larger than I remembered them. She was feeling my gaze because her nipples pushed to show against the bra. I noted the flush appear on her neck and cheeks. I noted the failure to meet my gaze -- again.
'Now, the bra,' I said, not a request.
Pammy reached behind her. She grimaced with the effort fumbling with the clasps. She arched forcing her covered breasts forward, forcing her stomach forward, forcing her knees to lock, forcing her thigh muscles to clinch. Forcing a slight thrust of her tongue between her lips. Then, like every woman I ever watched remove a bra, she reached forward to hold the bra against her tits while she shrugged the straps off her shoulders.
Time and motherhood had been good to Pammy's breasts. I remembered them being pert little things with nice, barely pink puffies, with pale wide aureoles. The aureoles tightened a bit over time and darkened and now her nipples came out to greet a man cigarette broad and pencil erasure long. Pammy let her arms drop to her sides. She let the bra slip to the floor. Her eyes made a quick glance at my eyes. She saw that I liked what I watched. For the first time, a slight smile crinkled at the edges of her mouth. Again. she looked to the floor.
'Remove your shoes.'
