The alarm clock woke him at six-thirty.
He got out of bed and pulled open the drapes. For a minute or two he basked in the wan early-morning sunshine, which had no voice and presented no threat.
Twenty minutes later he was showered and dressed.
He walked down the hall to his mother’s room and found the door ajar. He rapped lightly, but there was no response. He pushed the door open a few inches and saw her. She was out cold, lying on her belly, her face turned toward him; the knuckles of her left hand were pressed against her slack mouth. Her eyelids fluttered as if she was dreaming; she breathed shallowly and rhythmically. The sheet had pulled halfway down her body during the night. She appeared to be nude beneath the flimsy covers. Her back was bare, and he could see just a hint of her left breast, an exciting suggestion of fullness where it was squashed against the mattress. He stared at the smooth flesh, hoping she would roll over in her sleep and reveal the entire, soft, white globe.
— She’s your own mother!
But she’s built.
— Close the door.
Maybe she’ll roll over.
— You don’t want to see.
Like hell I don’t. Roll over!
— Close the door.
I want to see her breasts.
— This is disgusting.
Her tits.
— Jeez.
I’d sure like to touch them.
— Are you crazy?
Sneak in and touch ‘em without waking her.
— You’re turning into a pervert. A regular goddamned pervert. You ought to be ashamed.
Blushing, he quietly closed the door. His hands were cold and damp with sweat.
He went downstairs and ate breakfast: two cookies and a glass of orange juice.
Although he tried to clear his mind of it, he could think of nothing except Weezy’s bare back and the plump outline of her breast.
“What’s happening to me?” he said aloud.