rexphantom

Jerry comes downstairs and plods his way into the kitchen. He looks at neither of his parents, but both his mother and his father find their gazes drawn to Jerry. They are hypnotized by his milky white thighs, covered in a soft sheen of down. He wears socks pulled up to his calves and their eyes linger briefly on red-white-red stripe at the top of them before being called up higher, to the pants pockets jutting out from under his shorts.

Oh, Jerry, Joyce says.

What, Jerry snaps, too quickly. He already has his hands on a bag of potato chips.

Gus laughs and slides past Joyce to the kitchen sink. She has already turned her attention toward her son and his too-short shorts.

What did you do? Joyces hands are on her hips and she is shaking her head.

What? Jerry repeats.

Gus dries his hands on his shirt and leaves the kitchen, walking past his son and slapping him on the back. Thanks boy, he says, laughing. I owe you one.

Theyre cut-offs, he explains, a whine in his voice.

I can see that, she says. She stares at him, at his face, desperate not to look at his legs again.