Legs

"Legs, legs, legs. That's all you ever think about. What about brains? What about personality? Wait until a girl has had a few babies and whacks on a bit of weight! Let's see what you think of her legs when they're covered in great puckered purple veins." His mother's voice droned on as Peter sat engrossed in the swimsuit section of a beauty contest on the T.V. "Too skinny, if you ask me, and look at those ridiculous heels. I'd like to see her wearing those on the beach. Practicality dictates the classic rubber flip flop. You should be looking at nice, sensible girls wearing nice sensible shoes."

With nice, sensible bodies complete with lots of handles and two nice stable tree trunks to support the lot, Peter thought morosely as his mother paraded her own age-ravaged assets as a comparison. "Mum, put your dress down! Can't you wear stockings or something? Cover 'em up, for Goodness sakes!" He rose from his chair and hurried to the kitchen for another beer. His mother followed, sensing that she was wearing him down.

"Just a little reminder of what the years can do, Dear. By the way, Pauline's daughter is back from overseas, you know. I saw her at the Mall. We spent a nice hour together having a coffee and a chat. She's so much more mature and she looks so well. She's brought a lovely young French friend back with her and they had so many interesting things to tell me. Why don't you pop over for a visit? Get out of the house for a bit?

Peter shuddered at the thought. The phrase 'looking well' in polite conversation routinely meant excess fat and everybody knew it. Why did people try to pretty it up? A little honesty never hurt anyone, did it? If you're fat, you're fat; if you're ugly, then so be it! People shouldn't have to dance around the facts. Peter's mother had always promoted Angela as 'a girl with a lovely personality' and everybody knew what that meant. Chubby...TICK! Plain... DOUBLE TICK!

"It's been over a year, Mum. What do we really have to say to each other?"

She wagged a stern finger as she tailed him back to the lounge.

"An apology might be a good start, you know. I was so ashamed of you, upsetting a nice child like that. Well... time has passed and things are very different now. Do the right thing and let her know you're sorry. You may be surprised at what you find."

Peter recalled Angela the day before she had gone away. She was the nice, sensible girl that his mother dreamed of. She was Peter's nightmare.

It was the usual story. Plump and spotty little 'girl-next-door' falls for the ruggedly handsome guy next door, complete with all the ups and downs of the classic crush. The day before Angela was due to fly away, she had cornered him at the front door in order to bid him a tearful farewell. Peter had been compelled to tell her the truth. She had forced him to explain that he would never be interested in pursuing any sort of romantic interlude with a girl like her and that this break was for the best. Understandably devastated, she had rushed home sobbing fitfully into her handkerchief. He remembered his resentment towards Angela at being placed in such an awkward situation and his relief at being rid of her.

He felt a slight twinge of guilt as he now recalled some of the things that he may have said to her. Perhaps he should just drop in and see how she was going. Give her day a bit of a lift, I suppose. Besides, he thought as he absently picked at a pimple on his neck, there's always the opportunity to make a French Connection. Do my bit for international relations. He fingered the buttons of the television remote as he considered the possibilities.

"She's only been back a couple of days, Peter. She would probably like to see a friendly face. You should never have let her go. She's always been such a nice, sensible girl." His mother smiled flirtatiously at him and fluttered her wrinkled eyelids rapidly in his general direction. She was going to drive him nuts until he caved in. He could see that.

"Alright! Alright! I'll go and see her now, shall I? Will that shut you up?" Peter crushed his empty beer can, dropped it on the floor next to his chair and headed for the door.

"Have a lovely time, Darling!' she called after him, clapping her hands in glee. He could hear her muffled singing as he left the doorstep. Angela had been a favourite with his mother and he had received the silent treatment for a week after she had left. A mammoth effort on her part, Peter had noted, as a mere minute of silence usually exhausted her self-restraint. She had even withheld the basics. She refused to make his bed, cook his meals or wash his clothes. It had taken a lot of sweet-talking to regain the status quo and she still mentioned the incident from time to time. Memory like an elephant and a body to match, Peter often thought. He loved his mother but she could be a dreadful pain. She was always on his back. Nag! Nag! Nag! Always complaining about the state of the house, how he 'never lifts a finger'. That, as far as he was concerned, was a woman’s work. She frequently chastised him about the amount of time that he spent at the pub and why didn’t he join a team and get some exercise? She couldn’t understand that, after a hard day's work, a man just needed to relax with a few beers and watch some sport on T.V. How could she though? She was a woman and women were horribly thick when it came right down to it. Look at the way she had gone on and on about those beauty contestants! She wasn't able to grasp the basic concept that men are not primarily interested in women’s brains. They are concerned with other more tangible assets. Peter wasn’t quite sure what his father had been thinking but maybe his mother had looked better thirty years ago. Either that or the beer was stronger, he thought as he quickly ran his fingers through his hair. He noticed that he had a stain on the front of his T-shirt from last night's pizza and he scratched off the dried bits as he crossed his lawn. Convincing himself that it was hardly noticeable, he gave his armpits a quick sniff to check for freshness. Passable. He thought. He wondered what this French piece was like. It was common knowledge that French girls took care of themselves and were very sophisticated. I can’t work out why they never learned to shave their armpits. Must get a bit on the nose in the heat. Oh, well, it’s not as if I’m going to marry her, or anything. Hope she doesn’t eat garlic, though.

Peter knocked on the door of number twenty-seven and waited. After a few seconds had passed, he tried again. "Round the back!" called a young female voice. He went to the side of the house and stepped through the open side gate. Lying on a banana lounge was the most spectacular pair of legs that Peter had ever seen. Long, tanned and delicately curve, they appeared to be attached to an equally impressive torso. The sun glinted off the copper bob that framed the face of an angel. He could not see her clearly because of the glare but he was sure that he was looking at a living dream. This must be the little French morsel that his mother had mentioned. Ooh, la, la!

"Is that you, Peter?" The angel smiled and he nearly fell over with shock. "What a wonderful surprise! It's been such a long time." Angela stood and reached for a sarong that lay across the table. Peter's eyes roamed down those long legs again and his mouth fell open. She had changed. Really changed.

"Angela," he stammered. "Is that really you?"

She nodded and draped the scrap of material across her flat brown abdomen. Peter could feel his palms starting to sweat.

"Does the 'fat little toad' get a welcome back hug?" Angela laughed. Peter cringed inwardly as he vaguely recalled fragments of their last conversation. Yes, 'fat little toad' had featured there, along with 'bush pig' and other less than flattering terms.

"Angela, I didn't want to hurt you. I just wanted you to move on with your life..." Peter was beginning to realise that some back-pedalling was in order.

"Please, Peter, all is forgiven. Besides, I was a bit of an ugly duckling." She smiled and shrugged her slender shoulders.

Angela moved towards him, he opened his arms and she embraced him momentarily. As she pulled away, Peter managed a quick inspection of her bikini top. Gratified, he began to gush.

"I can't believe how much you've changed! You look great! In fact, you look so great that I hardly recognised you." Peter felt as if all his dreams had come true. Who would have believed that the girl next door would become the woman of his fantasies? She was possibly a bit put out but it was blatantly obvious that she still wanted him. The seductive roll of her hips, that look in her eyes, that smile, all added up to the same thing. With a little work , she would forget his thoughtless words. He was definitely 'in'. Wait until the guys at the pub heard about this!

"Yes, I suppose I have changed quite a bit since last time I saw you." She kissed his cheek and moved away slightly. "I have you to thank for that, you know. You told me a few home-truths before I left and, I admit, I was pretty upset. I thought about it, though, and decided that I would do whatever it took to make you love me. So, I worked on myself until I became just what I knew you would want." Peter felt his heart racing. "So? what do you think ?" she asked as she pirouetted before him.

"Ahhh, very impressive. I couldn’t ask for anything more."

"Thank you." She smiled and began to walk away from him. "It’s been a fantastic year for me and, in a way, I owe it all to you. Isn't it amazing how much a person can change in such a short time?" She playfully prodded his soft beergut and grinned. As she talked a tall, good looking man walked from the house towards them. "That's the great thing about travel, Peter. It opens your mind. You gain perspective very quickly. It helps you to see that, sometimes, things that seemed so dreadfully important to you at home are, in reality, just too trivial to bother with. You become a different person. Perhaps you should try it."

The man came near and Peter felt a growing discomfort as he surveyed the well-muscled frame, running a quick mental comparison against his own slightly imperfect physique. Angela's long, slender armed snaked affectionately around the stranger's shoulders and Peter felt his stomach lurch.

"Peter, I'd like you to meet my fiancé, Andre. Your mother was very keen for us to join you for dinner tonight so you will have heaps of time to get to know each other. I'm sure that you two will be great friends."

Peter's eyes settled on his mother, looking out through their kitchen window. He could swear she was laughing.

END.

Legs ©Shaye Bradshaw 2020