“That oughta do it.”
>The deep purple hue of your handkerchief fills your vision for a moment as you wipe the sweat from your face, standing and breathing heavily as the afternoon sun warms your bare back.
>Setting the hot drill in your hands down on the workbench, you blow the cedar shavings away and slowly examine the leg of the chair you’d spent the last three hours finishing up.
>Turning the piece of furniture on its side, you grab the level from its hook on the wall and meticulously take your fourth set of readings, scrawling numbers into a dirty notebook.
“Finally,” you talk to yourself. “Now to get started on the finish.”
>”You still in here, Anon?”
“Yes, Mama,” you reply, turning around and facing your mother as she walks into the garage, eyeing the four other chairs resting against the wall.
>”Good Lord, hun,” she whistles. “You been cooped up in here all day?”
“Yes, Mama,” you say, lifting the last piece off the workbench and carrying it over to its brethren. “I wanted to get the rest of the orders done before the weekend.”
>”You’re gonna put a crick in your back like that,” she scolds you, stepping out of the silhouette of the sun’s rays and over to you. “And look at you!”
>You give yourself a quick exam, your skin shining with sweat, a thin layer of sawdust coating your neck and torso.
“It’s nothing, Mama,” you insist. “Just trying to get things done is all.”
>”No son of mine’s workin’ himself to the bone like that,” she barks, hands resting on the belt line of her denim shorts. “Gonna give yourself heatstroke wearing that bulky jumper. Come on, it’s almost supper time anyways.”
“Mama, please-“
>Your own body cuts you off as your stomach roars, the promise of food awakening it from a labor-induced sleep.
>”You didn’t come in for dinner, did ya?” she frowns, crossing her arms under her bust, her gray tank top already showing signs of sweat. “Thick-head.”
>You sigh and peel your gloves off, the leather soaked as you stuff them in your  breast pocket.
>”You come in, clean yourself up and eat,” she orders, smiling at your frustration in unhooking your safety goggles.
>Yanking the eyewear off of you, you turn back to see your mother walking out of the garage, stopping just before turning out of view.
>”Anon?”
“Yes, Mama?” you perk up.
>”Good work today, hun.”
>You can’t help but break into a beaming smile at her, following her out and closing the bay door behind you.
—-
>”Applejack, you promised!”
>You silently chew your supper as your mother shrinks in her chair, her younger sister’s iron glare boring into her.
>”Look, Applebloom, we just can’t set aside that kind of money this close to winter!” your mother retorts, still in her casual clothes. “We don’t know what our checkbook’s gonna look like two weeks from now, much less two months!”
>”You’re being paranoid and you know it! That mattress is older than the two of us put together, and you’re gonna end up hurtin’ yourself if you don’t replace it,” Applebloom fires back.
>You look up from your plate slowly.
>Since when did Mama need a new mattress?
>”It’s fine. We need to be ready if something breaks down next spring,” your mother replies, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “I can take a few cramps here and there.”
>”You’ve BEEN taking cramps,” her sister says. “Remember when Anon had to carry you back in the house last week?”
“...You told me you rolled your ankle,” you hesitantly interject, setting your fork down.
>Your mother looks away from you with a mortified expression, covering her mouth with a hand.
>”Ah may have had a bad dream the night before,” she mutters.
>”Horseshit!”
“Auntie Bloom!”
>Applebloom jumps and darts her head over at your sharp tone, blushing.
>”Sorry, Anon.”
>You turn back to your mother, pushing your empty plate away and wiping your mouth.
“Mama, I’ll switch mattresses with you,” you say. “I’m young enough to not have to worry.”
>”No, hun, that’s alright,” she protests, getting up from her chair. “It’s not that big of a deal, really-“
“Mama.”
>Applejack looks up at you as you stand, a head and a half taller than her as you walk over and stand almost on top of her, your shoes less than an inch from touching.
“I don’t like seeing you hurtin,” you murmur as you hug her, her head pressed against your chest. “If I can do something about it, I’m gonna.”
>She sighs and returns the embrace, knowing your that’s-final voice when she hears it.
>”Can’t believe my own son’s lecturing me,” she says. “Some mother I am.”
“Stop being so hard on yourself, Mama,” you reply. “Harvest is going good, and I’ve got plenty of orders to fill. We’ll be fine.”
>The two of you remain there for a good half minute, holding each other and swaying slowly, before your aunt clears her throat.
>”Um, okay,” she blurts. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, dessert?”
>”We still got some of that peanut butter pie?” Applejack asks from behind one of your thick arms.
>”Yep,” she nods. “Made sure it had time to set up nice and rich. Not that your thunder thighs need any more.”
>”Hush, sis,” your mother blushes.
>”Just saying-“
>”HUSH.”
—-
>With a rumbling, breathy groan, you fall back on your mother’s mattress, the dark red walls of her bedroom barely visible in the shuttered glow of the full moon’s light.
>You stretch and let out something between a growl and a wheeze, your spine aching as it adjusts within you, free of the constant downward pressure it had endured for the past 15 hours.
>Surrounded in your well-earned exhaustion, you pull the covers up over you and settle in, your head plopping down on the pillow.
>Closing your eyes, you let the mystic haze of your subconscious pull you away from reality.
>You take in the scent of the sheets, and your mind turns back to your mother’s entrance in the garage earlier.
>Denim shorts that fail to reach even halfway down her massive thighs, the tank top doing nothing to conceal her lack of a bra, her bare, toned upper back peeking out at you...
>You shudder as a mix of want and shame grips you, fidgeting under the covers.
>Maybe Mama was right about needing to be more social at your age.
“Ain’t gettin’ hitched at 23, no sir,” you murmur to yourself.
>A minute passes in silence as you try your damndest to fall asleep, before a knock on the cracked-open door pulls your attention away from rest.
>”Anon?” a nervous voice travels through the dark. “Anon, hun, you awake?”
“Yes, Mama,” you groan, sitting up and propping yourself on one hand as she steps into the room, her dark pink chemise idly swishing in the faint glow of the nightlight as she steps over to the bed, unceremoniously pulling back the covers on the free side.
“Mama, I told you-“
>”Ah know, Anon,” she cuts you off softly.
“But quite frankly, your sheets stink.”
>Your ears turn red as you remember that you forgot to shower last night.
“Sorry, Mama. I’ll get those in the wash in the morning.”
>”Oh, it’s alright, hun,” she whispers as she pulls the poofy comforter back over the two of you, laying down with a sigh and a pop of her shoulders. “Now come on, let’s get some sleep.”
>Nodding, you join her, gulping as she nestles right beside you, her back turned as her loose blonde hair settles.
>You rack your brain for something to say, the sudden presence of a pretty woman in your bed scattering your composure to the wind.
“I love you, Mama,” you softly say after a moment.
>Applejack turns around to face you with a smile and a chuckle, lifting her head from the pillow to kiss your cheek.
>”I love you too, hun,” she croons before slumping against her pillow, now partially on you, your chests less than inches from touching.
>And what a chest hers is.
>You suck air through your teeth as the sinful urges resurface, digging your nails hard into your arm to try and break your current train of thought in the wake of the downblouse view of your Mama’s breasts you have.
>Desperate to ignore your lower half’s stirring to attention, you close your eyes and fade into a light sleep through sheer force of will, your ears still acutely picking up the sound of her breathing as she shifts back over and scoots, pressing her back against your chest.
>”Warrrrmmm,” she hazily mumbles, eyes still shut.
>Looks like Auntie Bloom was right about her sleep-talking.