Chapter 1

The drive took longer than I expected, even though the roads were eerily deserted.

It was probably illegal for me to be on the road during lockdown, and that made me nervous too. I just wanted to help out my old high school French teacher.

She’d been a great teacher, I liked her, and she asked for my help. No big deal.

“I’m going crazy! Six weeks in a hotel room.” She wrote on her facebook page.

“I thought you were retiring and moving to India.” I replied.

“So did I. I’d just sold my apartment and my car, I shipped my luggage ahead and then they decided to tighten the lockdown, my flight was canceled and here I am.”

“I have the opposite problem.” I wrote, “I’m alone in a big empty rural house with no one to talk to.”

A lonely guy. A lonely woman. A 40 year age gap meant it wasn’t sexual.

Right?

Ms. Bhatt came out of the hotel all masked up. As usual, her hair was wound and pinned behind her head. She was dressed in light colorful trousers and a blouse with open shoulders. In school she’d always worn heavy formal clothing, and maybe it was because I’d been alone too long that I suddenly noticed she had a rather excellent figure.

Several large suitcases were on a little wagon.

“Careful with that one, it’s heavy.” She warned me in her soft French accent as I grabbed the large one.

I held it up at arm’s length, showing off; “Don’t worry, I’ve kept up my training.”

I loaded them into the back of the pickup and we climbed into the front.

Her big almond eyes were all I could see of her face.

Ms. Bhatt was ethnically Indian, a small framed woman who spoke French as a first language. I knew little else about her.

“Should we do it?” she asked, setting her fingers on either side of the mask.

“We’ll be sharing a house, so I guess we should.” I agreed.

During lockdown, taking off masks together meant a certain level of intimacy. It was almost like taking off your clothes. She pulled it to the side and smiled at me brightly with her wide sexy mouth.

We knew each other; but not like this. Not one on one, in private. I was a bit surprised at the unexpected excitement I was feeling. I dismissed it, I was 17 and hadn’t been in the company of a female for a while.

“Thank you so much for this!” she said.

“No problem Ms. Bhat.” I said, “You’re looking great by the way.”

I was surprised and pleased with myself that I’d said that; I had difficulty talking to attractive women, and she definitely was one. Maybe because I was sure I had no chance with her, I wasn’t as shy as usual.

“Well thank you Brian! And please, school is over, call me Nisha.” She said, her face again lit by her smile as we drove off. “What training is it you do?” she asked.

“Gymnastics.” I told her, surprised she didn’t know that.

“Oh, of course.” She said, “I remember now. That’s where you get those shoulders.”

We’d known each other as student and teacher for a couple of years, but we’d never talked about personal things before.

It was a two hour drive to my grandparent’s old farmhouse. After gran had passed, we’d kept it as a vacation home. I’d grown up in an apartment in the city, only coming to the old house in summer. The farm had always felt like my real home, and now it was a refuge, a big secluded lockdown paradise.

She told me her about herself; her family was from India and lived in Mauritius, a French speaking island nation between India and Africa. Recollections of her mother trying to get her into a classical Indian sari when she only wanted to wear blue jeans and trainers, the story peppered with humor that had us laughing as we drove through the empty streets.

She was engaged and her fiancé lived in India, where they planned to retire together.

“So, I promised you an authentic Indian meal.” She said as I muscled her heavy bags inside and into her room. “I’d better get to it!”

I sat in the kitchen as she unpacked a box with shopping and went about cooking, while continuing her recollections of her island, and then her journey to the US when she got a scholarship to MIT.

She had a wonderful voice, the melodic intonation of French still subtly underpinning the American English she’d been speaking for so much longer.

As she heated a wok to stir fry the biryani, she looked up at me, dead in the eyes, her wide mouth smiled, and I wondered.

No way, forget it, I told myself. She was just here to share the space, we could keep each other company until she got a flight. It was just her French culture, she flirted with everyone.

“If you have a degree in computer science, why are you teaching French?” I asked her.

“I got my degree in the 80’s” she explained, “It was obsolete a minute after I graduated.”

Of course I was into my French teacher; I was into every good looking female I saw, I was a teenager. At the same time, I knew that to her I was just an acne ridden kid, a student, one of hundreds who passed through her classroom.

We were alone together in a secluded house, laughing and talking, sharing food.

Nisha was crazy smart. Her brown almond eyes saw right through my naïve young head.

“In the 30 years I’ve taught high school, I’ve had a thousand boys flirt with me, and a few girls too. I know you’re looking, but there’s respect. And of course we both know it can never be more than a look across the classroom, even though, well, you’re quite nicely built.”

She threw a bowl of vegetables into the hot oil, and the resulting crash of smoke and sound spared me from the need to answer.

Her black and grey hair hung down a ponytail now, and her tight trousers showed her tight rear when she turned to the fridge.

She was right, I did flirt with her; because she flirted with me. Not only me, it was just how she interacted with everyone, she’d point her eyes at you for an extra second, listen to what you said, and respond to it with intelligence and kindness.

Ms. Bhat was a great teacher. She was always generous with compliments and hesitant to disapprove. Her smile would light the classroom when any of us did well, and her sadness at poor work made us all want to do better next time.

“What is it, what are you smiling about?” she asked.

“I was just thinking that you’re a great teacher.” I told her, “Your early retirement is a loss to the school.”

“Well thank you for that.” She said, stirring vigorously, “I think that’s the nicest thing any student has ever said to me.”

She tipped the steaming meal into two bowls and cut some fresh herb onto the top.

“Biryani is the most simple dish in the Indian kitchen.” She said, “And quite mild.”

“Why do you want to leave?” I asked.

“Teaching school on Zoom is aggravating, and my other job has stopped completely.”

“What other job?” I asked.

“Teaching yoga.” She said. “I taught high school in the day, and yoga to adults at night.”

I nodded; that explained her amazing figure. Her nickname among the students was Ms. Butt.

“There are many reasons to go, and many not to.” She continued as we sat to eat, “The biggest is financial. If a stay here I have to work until I’m 68, and then I’ll be able to get by on my pension. In Asia, I can retire now and I’ll be wealthy. Here I’m a low class immigrant; in Mauritius or India, I’m a high class returnee. On the other hand, those countries are chaotic, badly managed, and riddled with corruption. My fiancé moved to India a few months ago, so that sort of tips the balance.”

Fiancé; I felt the tension ease, a mixture of disappointment and relief. She’d informed me that she was attached, any perceived flirtation was not meant as intent.

I took a timid taste; my head was filled with a cacophony of competing flavors, powerful spicy aromas, and confusion.

Nisha looked concerned; “Too spicy?” she asked.

“It’s wonderful.” I said, “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

She smiled; “After you’ve tasted Indian, you know what taste is.” She said with a chuckle.

“Have you ever been there?” I asked.

“I was actually born in India, but we moved to Mauritius when I was four.” She told me, “I’ve been to India a couple of times to visit. It’s weird, because I’m Indian yet I’m a stranger there. I even speak the language, or one of them at least, and of course I have family there too.”

I cleared away the plates and Nisha started talking again, her voice sweet and fascinating after weeks of boredom alone in lockdown. Her eyes glistened and her mouth had so much to say, and I enjoyed listening.

After earning her degree in the US she’d planned to return to her island, where her parents had a shortlist of husbands for her to choose from. But she had an American boyfriend by then, and didn’t want to marry and be a housewife.

“I was free and having fun.” She told me, “I thought I’d hold off a year or two. The only job I could get as a woman engineer in Mauritius was teaching, and that pays much better in the US.”

“So the boyfriend, is that the one in India now?” I asked.

“Oh God no; I dumped that one 25 years ago. And what about you, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.” I said, “I’ve never really found a girl I connected with.”

I saw her eyes open with surprise as she realized I could be a virgin, and for a horrible moment I thought she was going to ask.

It was my secret; most of my friends had “hooked up” as they liked to say. I’d dated a few girls but never managed to get one to go all the way. Maybe it was because when they said ‘No’, I stopped. Maybe I’m just an oversized klutz. Maybe I only chose girls who weren’t into me. When my friends were hanging out, I was working out. When they were out on dates, I was home sleeping off the exhaustion from training.

I was a loner.

We thought Nisha would stay for a week at most; then India banned almost all flights, so she stayed. And we spent time together.

We talked, we laughed, we watched movies, we talked about her future, and my future, and everyone’s futures. That got boring so we talked about the past, the present, politics, arts, sciences...

She watched me train. I’d set up a gym in the barn, I’d been allowed to borrow parallel bars from the school and I had rings and a pommel horse. No high bar or trampoline though. I showed off a bit, holding an iron cross on the rings for 6 seconds, twice as long as I’d ever managed before.

We walked in the forest, along the winding country roads, we sat on a fallen tree by a pond high in the hills in silence that was oddly more intimate than speaking. We watched from the hill as the neighboring farmer who leased my family’s fields harvested the crop with his tractor.

A small part of me wanted to try; put a hand on her shoulder, touch. The rest of me was sure that would only ruin our friendship.

Back home, I peeked through the balcony doors as she practiced yoga outside. I knew she had a good figure, but seeing her in that stretch leotard, I realized how good. Her muscle tone was fantastic.

We’d been living together for 4 weeks. Alone together.

I looked at her face; she was beautiful. I liked her. We were both lonely. Her fiancé was far away.

I was 17 and she was 57.

She sat still, oblivious of my gaze. Her hair was free, grey and black down her back. Her nose was prominent, proud and confident. Her mouth was wonderful, wide when she smiled, the curl of her lips totally sexy.

Her body was strong, her skin light brown and smooth, her hips narrow and her ass was truly impressive. Was it my imagination, or did she point those big dark eyes at me for just a little bit longer than before? Did she really smile at me just a little bit longer than an engaged woman should?

Later that afternoon we took a walk across the field and up the mountain, as we often did.

My heart was pounding with terror as I made my audacious move. Would she accept? Or was I a fool, misinterpreting the situation?

As we rested on an outcrop, I lifted my hand, and put young white palm against the back of her old brown hand.

She inhaled sharply and her face turned to stare at me. She looked surprised, perhaps even shocked. Her lovely mouth made a sort of O shape and her pretty almond eyes were stretched wide.

But she didn’t pull her hand away. She didn’t slap my face, or admonish me, or tell me I was a fool to imagine I had a chance with her.

No, she just looked out at the horizon again, and we sat in silence for a while. And then her hand twisted around, and her palm was on my palm, and her fingers slipped between my fingers.

Hand holding; I had a hardon from that. Because in the circumstances, it pretty much signaled intent.

We sat in silence for some minutes, as a tension that had been building between us dissolved, and a new tension took its place.

“No.” she said, breaking the silence and pulling her hand away.

“Why not?” I pleaded, suddenly crushed.

“I’m flattered, really. But come on, Brian; look at us, it’s ridiculous. I’m three times your age and I have a man waiting for me, you’re going back to school in a few months.”

“But right now, we’re here.” I countered brazenly, “You’re so beautiful.”

She laughed kindly; “You’re a hormone soaked teenager, and you haven’t even laid eyes on another woman’s face for ages.”

“I always thought you were beautiful.” I confessed.

“You just like my tight ass.” She countered, “I know what my nickname is.”

“I mean your face.” I said.

“You’re an attractive guy, Brian.” She told me, “You’re tall and strong, you don’t need to settle for an old woman. Be patient, the right girl will come along as soon as the epidemic passes.”

We walked back to the house in silence. I tried to think of something to say, to cover up the rift I’d created with my clumsy come on. I’d ruined everything, she’d pack her bags and leave me now, what else could she do?

As we got to a steep section, she took my hand for support; we’d been up and down harsher trails than this, and she hadn’t ever needed help.

Suddenly I realized; this was meant as a message. This was a yes!

She looked at my shocked face and smiled just slightly, in silent confirmation. We held hands as we made our way to the house, with walls for privacy, beds and all, where anything could happen.

I was terrified; Could I, would I? Would the experience scar me for life, would I be ruined? If Freud was right, my fate was sealed.

I was aware of her walking next to me, her breasts, her hair, her odor, her warmth. Were we really doing this?

For her, it would be cheating. Or maybe not if they had an arrangement, and anyway I was just a kid to her so whatever happened would only be physical.

For me, it was all I ever wanted. She seemed perfect; older, experienced. Yet healthy, sexy, and beautiful. The teacher of my dreams.