by Mickey Brent
At last, Hélène tore her eyes away. That was intense. She folded her blue napkin. “C’était délicieux! Thanks for bringing me here. It’s so nice to be on dry land with you, for once.”
Sylvie responded with a throaty laugh. “Yes, it is. And I’m glad you liked the culinary adventure. Come with me whenever you want. Tiens, aren’t those new glasses?”
Hélène blushed. “Ouais.”
“Let’s see.” Sylvie plucked the glasses from Hélène’s face. She leaned toward Hélène until their eyes were two inches apart. “Much better. Now I can see your luscious blue eyes.”
Hélène shivered at the closeness of their bodies; she could still smell the chlorine on Sylvie’s skin. She thinks my eyes are luscious? A barrage of conflicting thoughts swept into her mind until Sylvie abruptly pulled away and returned her glasses.
“They’re almost as sexy as your diving mask.” Sylvie punched her lightly on the shoulder.
“Hey, you’re my teacher. You’re not allowed to tease me.”
“Sorry.” Sylvie let out a hiccup. “I’ll just take your picture instead.” She dug into her backpack for her camera.
“Ah, non!” Hélène covered her face. She had never liked having her picture taken. The last thing she wanted right now was a permanent image of herself captured by Sylvie. She could feel her cheeks blushing at the thought of her secret—the pair of them frittering away the afternoon in this secluded garden paradise. Instead of safely translating at her office, she was downing glasses of stinky Greek wine while rubbing elbows—and perhaps more—with her attractive swimming coach. She squeezed her eyes shut as she licked the last taste of retsina from her lips. I wish I could just disappear.
“You look great. It’s a real Kodak moment.” Gently, Sylvie pulled Hélène’s hands from her face.
“But I don’t like—”
“Vassilios can take our picture. Want an espresso?”
“Non, merci. I already had my caffeine fix this morning.” Hélène winced. “You go ahead.”
“I’ll be right back.” Sylvie jumped up.
Hélène checked her instructor out as she crossed the garden. I love how she walks. So carefree and casual, yet so graceful. Sylvie’s strong legs propelled her body forward, followed by her tight, muscular buttocks. Those are amazing jeans. Hélène tingled all over, realizing how attracted she was to this androgynous, sexy woman. She held her breath. What’s coming next?
*****
“Which button do I push?” the waiter asked with a frown.
“Come on, Vassili. What do you think this is, an automatic?” Sylvie chuckled. “You know me better than that. I’m a manual kind of—”
“Ah oui, I’m sure you are, ma chérie. I bet nobody’s as manual as—”
Sylvie’s nostrils flared. “Here, let me adjust it for you.” Grabbing the camera, she focused the lens on Hélène. “Give us a big smile.”
Hélène forced her lips into a lukewarm smirk.
“Non, I want a real one. Show us your teeth!”
Even though Hélène felt vulnerable before the camera, her attitude softened at Sylvie’s candid enthusiasm. Her tingle of attraction was still there. What wouldn’t I do to please her? Cranking open her mouth, Hélène exposed her choppers to the sky.
“Much better.” Sylvie snapped the shutter, then handed her camera to Vassilios.
“Looks good, mesdames, but you need to squeeze together,” he ordered. “Come on, a bit closer now.”
The two women narrowed the gap between their bodies and Sylvie promptly wrapped her arm around Hélène. As soon as Hélène felt the goddess’s solid shoulder against her chest, a rush of adrenaline hit her.
Vassilios lowered the camera and whispered to Hélène. “Mon ange, you really must try to look less constipated. Now, relax and smile for the camera.”
Sylvie shot him an exasperated look, while Hélène’s lips tightened. “Constipated” was hardly her favorite word, especially when it described her face. But for Sylvie’s sake, she forced herself to relax.
“At least I got your heads.” The waiter chuckled after four attempts. “Or somewhere in the vicinity.”
Sylvie shot him a sharp response in Greek.
Vassilios laughed all the way back to the restaurant.
“Sorry about that,” muttered Sylvie. “He can be so annoying sometimes. His big dream was to go to Broadway and…”
But Hélène wasn’t listening; her mind was too busy analyzing. They sure seem intimate. Maybe an ex-couple? She didn’t really want to know.
Then again, yes she did. She couldn’t help imagining her swimming instructor’s nimble fingers pulling on the thick leather belt holding up his white sailor pants, slowly undoing it…
She imagined Sylvie’s teeth on the silver buckle. Non!
Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Hélène glanced at Sylvie’s full lips, which were still rambling with the effects of the potent Greek wine.
Then Sylvie’s expression turned serious. “Ca va? You don’t look so good.”
Is it that obvious? wondered Hélène, tapping her moist cheeks. “It’s just the wine. I’m not used to having alcohol at lunch.”
Sylvie chuckled. “Well then, mea culpa.” She reached toward Hélène and swept a strand of shiny hair behind her ear. “I must be a bad influence on you.”
“Non. You’re not.”
“Not yet, perhaps.” Sylvie’s dark eyes sparkled. “Anyway, have you decided about the lessons? If we do it on Saturdays, we won’t have the pool to ourselves anymore, but…”
Not yet, perhaps…What’s that supposed to mean? Hélène wondered, feeling the tingle rush between her legs. Focus…focus. Her eyes narrowed in on Sylvie’s hands, which were gesticulating in the air. Her fingers were long, and strong, like the rest of her body. Hélène’s imagination took over, making her dizzy, generating a rush of unsettling thoughts, full of hot, graphic images of the two of them in terribly intimate poses.
This potent concoction—mixed with a half liter of retsina—swished in Hélène’s brain. She squeezed her eyes hard to block it out.
“So what do you say?” asked Sylvie, concluding her monologue. “About Saturday lessons.”
Hélène mutely stared at the Greek goddess, amazed to be still sitting on her chair.
*****
After several moments of confusion, the answer came to Hélène: Screw Marc.
“Let’s do it!” she blurted.
“Super. I’ll ask the director tomorrow, then. We can start next Saturday. At eight sharp.”
Hélène’s eyebrows shot up. Sylvie seemed genuinely excited at the idea of rising early on Saturdays to give her lessons.
As if to confirm her thoughts, Sylvie added, “I really enjoy our lessons, you know.”
Hélène felt a rush of heat hit her cheeks. “Me too. It’s bizarre, I always hated the water. That’s why I avoided it all these years. What a waste!”
“How could anyone hate water?” Sylvie peered at her. “I thrive in it.”
A vivid image popped into Hélène’s mind. Her teacher emerged halfway out of the pool, flicking her wet hair from her shoulders. A stream of droplets landed on Hélène’s face. The two women laughed, moist breasts jiggling, before joining to embrace.
Cupping her water glass, Hélène held her breath as she generated slow circles on the table. The swirling water licked at the sides like tiny waves at the beach. “I know,” she purred. “It feels heavenly—my entire being vibrates as soon as I’m in the pool. Does yours too?”
“That depends,” said Sylvie, peering at the pulsating water.
“On what?” Hélène dug her fingernails into the glass.
Sylvie lifted her chocolate eyes. “On whom I’m with,” she answered with a playful wink.
Hélène blushed again, realizing that she had just been extended an invitation. This intimate conversation went well beyond simply flirting. What do I do now? If she were a guy, I’d probably clear out of here. She glanc
ed at the empty garden tables in a desperate attempt to calm her racing thoughts. But she’s not a guy. And she is so damn cute. And sexy. And nobody’s around.
“Excuse-moi.” Before Hélène could stop herself, she bent down and untied her right boot. “Where were we?” she asked with a sly grin, extending her bare toes under the table.
The surprise on her face was worth it. “Mon Dieu!” Sylvie exclaimed.
Hélène shrugged. “My toes were cold, so I thought you might warm them…It’s working.”
Sylvie pinched her lips. “Ahem. Do you always do this when you dine with friends?”
Hélène laughed heartily. “First of all, I never dine out. Remember?” She leaned closer. “And we’re not actually friends, n’est-ce pas?”
Sylvie paused.
Hélène could feel the tingling in her toes as they rubbed Sylvie’s ankle. Indeed, they were warmer now.
Sylvie’s dark eyes grew glossy with emotion. She remained silent.
She’s enjoying this. Encouraged, Hélène traced her big toe along the inside of Sylvie’s calf, savoring the roughness of her teacher’s jeans.
“We’re not actually friends, n’est-ce pas?” Hélène repeated, drumming up her most sexy, guttural tone as she moved her toe upward toward Sylvie’s thigh.
“I’m your instructor, and you’re…” Sylvie started to reply in a strained voice.
“You know what I mean. You feel the attraction between us as much as I do, don’t you?” Hélène surprised herself with her newfound expression of confidence. Without waiting for a response, she rubbed her toe against Sylvie’s inner thigh and peered into her eyes. “We could be much more.” Rather than dissuading her, the startled look on Sylvie’s face excited Hélène. She wanted more, and she desperately hoped her instructor did too. Her heartbeat quickened as the seconds ticked by.
“Of course I do,” Sylvie finally replied, leveling her voice. “But let’s face it, you’re married. You may not be happy in your marriage, but you’re still married. I’ve done this charade before. C’est impossible. Believe me, it never works out. Everyone gets hurt in the end.” Sylvie removed Hélène’s foot from her lap.
“But Marc’s cheating on me,” Hélène spat out, suddenly realizing the truth.
He had never admitted it, but she knew deep down he had a lover. A long-term lover. And she’d never even had the guts to confront him about it. She cringed when she recalled his reaction a few nights before when Marc noticed her new haircut.
She had wanted to surprise him with a romantic dinner in their garden, but all his attention had focused on her hair.
“Must have cost you a bundle. What a waste of money,” he had yelled, insulting her.
Hélène’s cheeks had been burning. It’s none of your business how much I paid. How about adding up all you spend on the gym, car racing, computers, season tickets to soccer games… Rampant thoughts had raced through her mind. A heck of a lot more than a haircut!
She had been tempted to recite the list, but the cool air on her skin reminded her they were outside, within earshot of all the neighbors. So she had swallowed her anger—again.
And now, she realized, all those late nights. All those trips to the gym. It didn’t really matter. Nothing really mattered in my life. Until now. I’ve got to call Ceci to tell her she was right. She was right about everything…
“Vraiment?” Sylvie asked, raising her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because I didn’t realize it until now. But I don’t care. What I do care about is us. You and me. I can’t think of anything but you. Ever since the first day we met at the market, and I found your keychain, remember? And then we met again at the pool. Ce n’était pas un hazard. This is more than pure coincidence. It’s fate. We were meant to be together. Please, Sylvie, just give us a chance.”
When Hélène squeezed Sylvie’s hand, she felt a jolt of electricity sizzle through their fingers.
“Coffee’s here!” announced Vassilios, creeping up on the two women. Promptly, he draped an arm around Sylvie’s shoulder while delivering her a minuscule cup of espresso.
Hélène couldn’t help noticing the way his arm touched Sylvie’s breast—and lingered there.
So maybe they’re bosom buddies. But he doesn’t have to take the term literally!
Agonizing stomach cramps ensued…until a rebellious burp exploded from Hélène’s lips. Horrified, Hélène cupped her mouth. “Excusez-moi!”
Between guffaws, Vassilios blurted, “Sounds like your kopela liked the meal, Syl!”
Hélène’s eyes were stinging with tears—but not from laughter. Clutching her stomach, she abruptly stood.
“Skáse, you idiot!” hissed Sylvie in Greek. “Can’t you see she’s upset? You’re just making things worse.”
The waiter excused himself profusely and left.
“Please sit down.” Sylvie motioned to Hélène. “Sorry he’s such a brute. No manners at all.”
Silence reigned as the two women sat side by side in the quaint garden setting. The lush atmosphere reminded Hélène of her latest poem, provoking a deep sense of peace in her—with the exception of a certain lingering thought: I’m obsessed with her.
She observed Sylvie’s strong fingers stir several spoonfuls of sugar into her tiny espresso, then bring the beverage to her sensuous lips. Hélène caught a glimpse of Sylvie’s pink tongue as her lips parted; she took the rim of her cup in her mouth and sucked down the sweet, thick liquid. Then she turned to face Hélène, licking her moist lips.
“Delicious,” Sylvie stated in a raspy voice. She held her spoon—coated with sugar and bitter coffee granules—up to Hélène’s lips and peered into her eyes. “Want a taste?”
Chapter Seventeen
Dozens of dark clouds hung over the two women as they left the restaurant. Hélène felt raw, exposed, even guilty after her confession to Sylvie. She knew she shouldn’t have come to lunch with her. She should be at the office translating, not wasting her time with this woman. What terrible bug had bitten her, to make her think this would work out?
I must have a fever. I must be sick. Her hand went to her forehead. It was warm and sticky. I sure am sick. Sick of this whole messed-up situation. I want my life to go back to normal. She felt her heart beat wildly under her blouse. But what is normal? I just want to go home. She quickened her step.
Ahead on the sidewalk, Frank, the homeless man, sat with his chin on his chest, bare feet splayed.
Hélène approached him like a steamroller, and cleared her throat.
As soon as his swollen eyes noticed her, he stuck out his palm. “Would you happen to have a coin or two to—”
“Voici.” Hélène shoved a €20 bill into his dirty hand.
Frank’s eyes bulged.
“It’s not much, but I hope it helps.”
The homeless man held the bill an inch from his eyes. “Merci, Madame.”
“Get yourself some shoes,” ordered Hélène, marching off with Sylvie on her heels.
When they reached the VW bug, Sylvie touched Hélène’s arm. “Listen…” she began.
Hélène shook it off. “Non. You listen. I’m sorry you’re not interested in me. I guess I’m not good enough for you. Or sexy enough. Or young enough.” She exhaled forcefully. “I’ll just grab a cab…”
“Skatá! Over my dead body!” cursed Sylvie in Greek, crossing herself. “What is wrong with you, woman?”
The black sky stretched over the pair, its obscure canvas riddled with ominous slivers of lightning. Hélène glanced at the rain clouds, wishing she knew the answer herself. What the heck is wrong with me?
The mood in the car was as cozy as a soggy woolen blanket.
Hélène kept her gaze on the road during every painful second with Sylvie, squinting behind her glasses to keep her tears from spilling out. She wished someone would thrust a wall between them, to separate her from this person who could make her feel so great one minute, yet so dreadful the next. Just
like the bitter coffee granules mixed with sweet sugar lingering on her tongue. She glanced at Sylvie’s arms as she maneuvered the car, her well-defined forearm muscles flexing as she gripped the wheel.
Hélène’s stomach lurched at a sharp left turn. It’s all her fault. She’s like a magnet. Despite her will to do the contrary, she studied the tiny hairs on Sylvie’s tan arms, leading up to slightly bulging biceps under her T-shirt. These weren’t the only things bulging under her T-shirt. Hélène gulped to keep the guilty feelings down, tormented at how she had always been attracted to light cotton on dark skin.
Maman would definitely hate her. She’s a bad influence.
The air in the VW bug suddenly tasted stale.
*****
Sylvie rolled down her window. The cool breeze caressed her clammy skin. It’s going to rain any second, she concluded, observing the black clouds overhead as she drove down busy avenues. Maybe she has mental problems. Or she’s got writer’s block? It sure didn’t look like it a few hours ago…Or maybe she’s like most Belgians and can’t take it when it rains in summer. She thought about all the possible reasons why Hélène became so upset after their lunch, but nothing seemed plausible. Was it because I removed her foot from my thigh? What was she thinking anyway? In a public place? At my favorite restaurant, for the world to see? Clenching her teeth, she racked her brain to think of something to say to alleviate the unbearable silence between them.
This should lighten her up. She switched on the radio. As soft rock filled the car, Sylvie glanced at her passenger, whose lips were still pinched together, tight as clothespins.
At the next red light, Sylvie propelled a silent prayer to the sky. Instantly, the dark clouds retorted with bloated raindrops, splattering on her windshield. This is pure agony.
At last Sylvie reached the pool parking lot. But before she cut the engine, Hélène jumped out of the car.
“Thanks for the meal,” Hélène said through the window.
