by Mickey Brent
Mon Dieu! Hélène wasn’t expecting a kiss. When she stood stiff as a statue, Sylvie backtracked. “Sorry, that must have sounded strange. It’s just that after their first lesson, some students decide that swimming’s not for them. Especially older…”
Hélène’s face fell.
“Désolée, I didn’t mean that.”
“That’s okay.” Averting Sylvie’s eyes, Hélène looked at her toes. They seemed so pale on the concrete, almost bluish. I could probably be her mother.
“That’s not what I meant,” repeated Sylvie. “I’m thirty-six myself.”
Hélène looked up. “I’m forty.” Saying it made her feel even older. At least I couldn’t be her mother.
“Ah, you’re so ancient.” Sylvie flashed her a smile, exposing her dimples. But the smile quickly faded. “Just kidding! You don’t look anywhere near forty,” she insisted, apparently trying to erase the damage. “You don’t look even look thirty.”
“Has anyone ever informed you that you’re a rotten liar?”
“What counts is how we feel.” Sylvie inhaled deeply and stretched her arms. “I promise, once you start swimming, you’ll feel fantastic. You’ll grow younger by the day.”
Hélène shivered, not knowing if it was due to the chilly morning air on her bare skin or the fact that the goddess kept inching closer to her.
“So let’s get started. Go take a seat on the bench.”
Standing before her, Sylvie casually removed her towel.
Hélène caught her breath. Her instructor’s olive-skinned body looked even more magnificent today, as if a sculptor had spent years crafting it, chiseling it in all the right places. Such strong shoulders; such a slim waist. She sure is a swimmer. Her powerful thighs were inches from Hélène’s nose. Remembering her own flabby legs, she wished she could shrink to the size of a pea.
“Ahem.” Sylvie stood with her arms folded. “Aujourd’hui, I’m going to show you how to breathe underwater.” Her voice deepened. “It’s easy. You just breathe in over your shoulder, and breathe out under the water—like this.” Leaning forward, she extended her bicep, twisted her head, and inhaled deeply. Then she turned toward the ground and exhaled.
“Keep your chin in and only breathe through your mouth.”
After repeating this three times, it was Hélène’s turn.
Hélène stiffened when she felt Sylvie’s breath on her neck. No matter how hard she tried, her chest refused to expel the air trapped in her lungs.
“Exhale harder. I can’t hear you,” instructed Sylvie, placing a warm hand on Hélène’s back. This only made things worse. Immobilized, Hélène stopped breathing.
“Let’s try that again,” said Sylvie.
Hélène did the exercise perfectly.
“Bien. Now it’s time to try it out for real,” said Sylvie, leading Hélène down the steps.
Tiny bubbles floated to the surface as she exhaled in the shallow water.
When her teacher stood at last, Hélène couldn’t help but stare at the droplets pouring down Sylvie’s magnificent body. As if in a trance, her poetic mind wandered to deep, uncharted depths…
*****
Sylvie pondered Hélène’s droopy eyelids. She didn’t hear a word I said. If those are “bedroom eyes,” I can’t even imagine what that guy does to her to put her in this state. Sylvie shuddered at the thought.
When Hélène donned an old-fashioned, black rubber diving mask, Sylvie bit her lip to keep from giggling. She’s a real kick.
But as soon as her student’s nose hit the water, she ripped off the mask. “I can’t do this!”
“Yes, you can. Try again.” Sylvie placed her hand on her shoulder. Poor thing. She’s quivering. I’ve got to check the pool temperature.
“Tell me when I’m supposed to start enjoying this,” grumbled Hélène. Reluctantly, she donned her mask again and slid her face into the water. As instructed, she turned her head and inhaled. But instead of air, she got a lungful of chlorinated water. As water gushed from her mouth, she sputtered, “Vous voyez! I knew I couldn’t do it!”
“The first time’s the hardest, I promise. Allez-y, let’s try again.”
Hélène came up choking again. “I’ll never get this!” She threw her mask at the deep end of the pool, where it began to sink. Then she burst into tears.
Sylvie placed her arm around her pupil’s shoulders. “Ne vous inquiétez pas. It’ll be okay,” she said in a soothing tone. “You’ll get it. It’s really not that hard.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Watch me,” said Sylvie, diving into the shallow water. In just a few strokes, she retrieved the mask at the bottom of the pool. Gently, she placed Hélène’s diving mask back on her face. “Voilà. You’re all set.”
“This is the last time.” Hélène grimaced. “If it doesn’t work, I’m giving up.”
“Deal.”
“I’d probably be better at Rollerblading anyway.”
“I’m sure you would. All aspiring poets are,” replied Sylvie, chuckling. “Now stick your head in the water before I do it for you!”
Hélène took a quick breath and lowered her head. This time, she did the exercise as instructed. Triumphantly, she began jumping and threw her arms around Sylvie’s neck. “I did it!”
What enthusiasm, mused Sylvie. Just like a kid. Then Sylvie noticed a tingling sensation: her pupil’s breasts were rubbing against hers as she jumped in the water. With Hélène’s arms still around her neck, the friction between their bodies stimulated her in tender spots that she knew shouldn’t be stimulated during private swimming lessons. Especially with straight students—married or not.
Delicately, Sylvie pushed her away. “That’s super, Hélène. But I think we’ve had enough excitement for today, n’est-ce pas?” Before her pupil could respond, Sylvie dove back in the water to cool off.
*****
Lydia sat pouting in her new gold BMW as she scanned the trees through her steamy windshield. “She should be here by now,” she muttered under her breath. Impulsively, she raised her newly manicured nails to her lips. But before their tips entered her mouth, she noticed the silky pink polish. “Darn, I gave that up.”
She hugged herself to keep warm in her new gold Chanel jogging outfit. “I didn’t get up at dawn and drive all this way for my health.”
At last, she spotted a woman with a ponytail running on the other side of the park.
“Enfin!” she exclaimed, jumping out of her car and jogging across the grass. Then she stopped abruptly and bent down. “This is pure torture. How can anyone enjoy this?” She pulled on her socks to keep her new jogging shoes from chewing up her ankles.
“Mince, it’s not her,” muttered Lydia as the woman jogged passed her. “But she’s kind of cute…” she muttered, trudging after her.
After a few seconds, Chanel woman got a cramp and had to give up the chase. She plopped herself on a bench and whipped out her golden cell phone. She pursed her lips as her slender pink fingernails made the familiar clicking noises on the keys. “I’m such a femme fatale.”
With each empty ring, however, Lydia’s lips tightened. She struggled to force the anger from her mind. As usual, it was a fierce battle. Her temples were throbbing with rage.
At the end of Sylvie’s recorded message, Lydia cleared her throat and flashed her fakest smile at the nearest victim—a tree. “Salut, mon lapin, where are you?” she gushed into the receiver. “I’m here at the park—our park—waiting for you. Please call me back, honey bunny, d’accord? It’s been days and I’m worried about you, my little pump—”
Just then, the jogger in a ponytail ran past Lydia. Without hesitating, Lydia jumped up. “Kin,” she added under her breath as she and her Chanel suit promptly chased after the ponytail.
*****
Hélène was styling her hair with a blow-dryer when something moved behind her. She reached for her glasses and saw Sylvie’s glistening face in the mirror.
Hél�
�ne gulped. The only thing separating her from the goddess’s nakedness was a white towel—and two inches of steam. Sylvie’s wet, silky hair spilled off her firm shoulders. She gave her dark locks a shake.
“You did great today.”
“What?” Hélène switched off the blow-dryer. She tried to keep her eyes off her teacher—without success. She could feel her pupils dilating as if to swallow Sylvie in their depths.
“I’m embarrassed.” Hélène blushed. “I acted just like a baby.”
“Not at all,” Sylvie put her hand on Hélène’s shoulder. “It’s not easy at first. Not for anyone. You did great. Vraiment.”
The warm hand radiated through Hélène’s blouse, penetrating her skin. She quivered. Then Sylvie gave her a little wink and tiptoed toward the bathroom stalls.
Before Hélène had a chance to recover, she heard buzzing. She glanced toward the stalls. That’s a weird tinkle. Then she shook her head. Mais non. She put the blow-dryer next to her ear. It’s not this. The buzzing continued. She spotted Sylvie’s yellow backpack on the counter. Sounds like a cell phone. She reached toward the zipper.
Wonder who’s calling her?
Hélène’s fingers hovered over the pocket.
*****
What am I thinking? Hélène quickly withdrew her hand. As a consolation, she picked up the keychain lying next to the backpack. The metal fish’s smoothness felt somehow reassuring. As her fingers caressed its lustrous surface, a surge of vitality swept through her body, drawing her mind like a magnet back to the moment when the two women first met.
Hélène shut her eyes to capture the images flashing by, like a storyboard for a film.
A flicker of light from the exotic woman’s eyes—rich as dark chocolate—reaches out to grab her. Hélène’s body is transported to the lands of ancient Greece. Her throat goes dry. A soft, sandy wind blows around her body; when she tenses, something inside her cracks. She’s immobile on the outside, vulnerable from within. The goddess’s eyes mesmerize her. With her sensuous, wet lips…
Abruptly, Hélène caught her breath. Sylvie was standing right behind her, grinning. Her dark skin contrasted beautifully with the white towel barely concealing her muscular contours. And her luscious hair, now whipped up in a white towel, created the spitting image of a movie star.
With horror, Hélène realized her cheek was twitching again. But she completely forgot her tic when she noticed what was in her palm. Mon Dieu!
She flung the keychain on the counter as if it were a dead tarantula.
Sylvie chuckled. “Remember that day?” She waved her comb at the silver keychain. “Isn’t life bizarre? Who would’ve thought—”
“I know. Such a coincidence.” Please, don’t let her see my tic, thought Hélène as Sylvie plopped down next to her, unraveling her head towel.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question.” Sylvie turned to face Hélène, who swiveled sideways to hide her pulsating cheek. “Who was that guy at the café?”
“Guy? What guy?”
“At the market, with the skinny mustache—”
“Ah…Marc,” muttered Hélène to the wall.
“Marc?”
“Oui, Marc,” replied Hélène. As she repeated his name, she felt something give way in her cheek, followed by a bland sensation. Bizarre. Tic’s gone. All I had to say was his name.
Hélène felt her teacher’s eyes on hers. Better get it over with. “He’s my husband.”
Sylvie’s brows were knitted together. “I figured.”
“Ah, bon? Is it that obvious?”
Sylvie opened her mouth to reply, but Hélène beat her to it. “Brussels sure is small,” she declared, changing the subject. “It’s like a village, don’t you think? Hard to imagine it’s actually the capital of Europe.”
Sylvie nodded. “Never know who you’ll run into. How often do you go to the market?”
“Every Saturday. What about you?” Hélène’s voice cracked. She became even more vigilant of her thoughts, lest they spread to her facial muscles again.
“Moi aussi. Every Saturday.”
“C’est bizarre. Wonder why we’ve never run into each other before.”
“Who knows? Maybe we did but didn’t realize it.” Sylvie’s cheeks widened, exposing her dimples. “When I get to the flower stand, all I see are luscious plants everywhere. It’s like I become one with them. I’m blinded by their beauty, and—”
“Me too, it’s like somehow, they enter a deeper part of my being, and I lose all notion of time,” Hélène added with an exuberant squeal. “It drives my husband insane.”
Sylvie’s eyebrows narrowed. “So we’ve probably seen each other before but didn’t realize it.”
C’est impossible, thought Hélène, trying to keep her eyes off the Greek goddess’s bare shoulders. I would have remembered you. That’s for sure.
Sylvie dangled her keys. “I’m glad we did. I’d have never seen these again!” She kissed the silvery fish.
Seeing this, Hélène got a queasy feeling in her stomach. She jumped up. “Time to go. I’m going to be late—” The locker room door slammed. “For work!”
Sylvie sat on her stool, brows knitted, facing herself in the mirror. After a brief hesitation, she grabbed her bathrobe and ran after her.
*****
Dark orange flickers of light danced into Hélène’s eyes, reflecting the sun’s early-morning efforts to illuminate the city. Standing under a tree, Hélène shielded her eyes from the soft ball rising in the sky. She wished she could snatch its comforting warmth, to keep her from feeling things she shouldn’t be feeling. I wish Maman were here.
The crunch of gravel made her jump.
“Thought you were in a hurry.”
Hélène swung around to face Sylvie, in her bathrobe. She stammered, “Well, I—”
“Glad you’re still here. You forgot this.”
“I’m so absentminded.” Hélène took her bag. “Merci,” she muttered, avoiding her teacher’s inquisitive eyes. When she bent down to unlock her bike, she heard a throat clear.
“Your husband doesn’t like plants, n’est-ce pas?”
Where did that come from? Hélène stiffened. “He says they’re a waste of money.”
“I couldn’t live without mine.” Sylvie reached and tweaked a leaf-covered branch. A yellow leaf swirled down, landing in her pupil’s hair. “They’re my best buddies.”
“Me too. Especially flowers.” Hélène stood. The leaf fell off her head.
Sylvie chuckled. “If I had to choose between flowers and meals, I’d rather starve.”
“Looks like you’ve already made your choice,” said Hélène, pointing to Sylvie’s slim waist, despite her bulky bathrobe. “And I’ve made mine. Just look at this fat belly!”
Sylvie gripped Hélène’s handlebars. “Once you start swimming every day, you’ll lose it.”
“But I’ve never had a flat stomach. Not even as a kid.” Hélène pinched a fold in her stomach. “Just rolling rubber.”
“You never swam before. You’ll lose it, I promise.”
“Sure hope so.” Hélène swung a leg over her bike, expecting Sylvie to move, but she didn’t. “Attention, you’ll get bike grease on you.”
Sylvie chuckled, exposing her dimples. “Do I seem like the kind of gal who’s afraid to get her clothes dirty?” She leaned over the handlebars, exposing a glimpse of bosom surrounded by soft, white terry cloth. Her legs were straddling the bike’s front wheel.
Hélène’s heart started racing. Muted, she shook her head. A droplet slid out of her ear.
I must be waterlogged.
Finally, she broke the awkward silence. Wiggling her handlebars, she declared unconvincingly, “I’d better get to work.”
Sylvie peered into her eyes. “You know, Hélène, if you work hard enough, you can do anything you want.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just need a bit more confidence.”
“Aren’t you sup
posed to be a swimming instructor?” Hélène started blushing. “Don’t tell me you teach philosophy too?”
“Non, I just say what I think. And I think—”
“I really do have to go,” Hélène snapped. To her relief, the olive-skinned hands released her handlebars. Hélène dug her feet into the pedals, and the bike raced forward.
“Didn’t mean to offend you,” declared Sylvie.
“Just forget about it, d’accord?” Gravel flew as Hélène rode off.
“Who does she think she is?” Hélène muttered as she pedaled down the street. I’ve got everything I need in my—
Before she could finish her thought, a sharp craaaack erupted overhead and a streak of lightning sliced through the sky. A raindrop splattered Hélène’s glasses.
The drops soon became buckets. Soggy Belgian summers. Hélène pedaled even more furiously. Racing through mud puddles, she left all traces of Sylvie behind—or so she thought.
*****
When Hélène finally reached her office, she sloshed her way into the ladies’ room, ignoring the puddles her boots left on the linoleum. She faced the mirror defiantly. Time for the tornado effect. Laughing frantically at her glistening face, she shook her body like a wild dog, flinging her hair in all directions. Water droplets splatted the mirrors.
Voilà. I feel much lighter now. She disappeared into a stall.
Hélène reappeared in a skirt and promptly applied glossy peach lipstick. Parting her wet, shiny lips, she whispered “olive juice” into the mirror, three times. Each time, she accentuated the “o” and the “ju” even more slowly and sexily, opening and closing her soft, round lips. Just like Marilyn Monroe, she mused, blowing exaggerated kisses at herself.
“Embrassez-moi, chérie. Just one kiss and I’ll be your slave forever!” Hélène whispered in a raspy voice. She puckered her peachy lips and gave the mirror a full-on kiss.
Sounds of spiky heels on linoleum approached. Hélène ripped her lips from the moist glass. Cecile stood directly behind her. After a quick look at Hélène—and her evidence of passion on the mirror—she shrieked and did an about-face.
