LatinosUSA

People say one should do things on a beautiful spring morning, so I put on a fresh blue shirt with a crisp collar, beige slacks with knife-edge creases, a pair of highly polished brown shoes, and set out for a stroll. After walking through town, I turned down a side street leading to a residential area. Trees, bushes and plants sprouted everywhere. A pleasant breeze bore the scent of frangipani. Butterflies fluttered by. A glint of sunlight drew my eyes to a lake in a nearby park. A flock of large birds landed on the water’s bright surface and caused the departure of some of their smaller, tree-based cousins.

The sun reflected brightly off the whitewashed walls of a house further down the avenue. As I neared the building, a cloud passed in front of the sun, and I was able to relax my eyes and inspect the house. Against the nearest wall, Virginia creeper crept up a rust-coloured wooden trellis. A border of marigolds surrounded an immaculately groomed and very green front lawn. A low wall ran along the front of the property and, at its midpoint, brick posts supported ornate wrought-iron gates that stood open. The large front door was black and shiny, with an oval window of darkly stained glass in its centre. The house had a Spanish air about it, and I looked to the roof to see the terra-cotta tiles. Along one side of the building, ten or twelve pencil pines stood in a row as if on sentry duty.

I stopped walking and took in the pleasant exterior of the squared residence. White lacy curtains hung inside an open window on the upper floor. Would a gentle wind part the flimsy curtains and allow me a sense of the interior?

As if on cue, a curtain billowed out of the window, revealing a woman rubbing her head with a large white bath towel that hung down in front of her. As I watched, she turned about, presumably to face a mirror, draped the towel on her bare shoulder, and fingered her blonde hair away from her scalp. Her damp tresses were already beginning to curl. The breeze slackened, and the curtain fell back into place. I remained rooted to the spot and wished I had Superman’s ability to blow the curtain aside. Zephyrs were all about me, yet the delicate material refused to move. The pencil pines bent in a leisurely fashion to the dictate of the breezes. A piece of crumpled paper tumbled down the avenue, making a light clicking noise.

Suddenly one of the curtains undulated with tantalising grace, then the puff of wind died, and the fabric remained in place. The cloud passed, and the sun’s bright light shone again into my eyes. I moved a metre to my left and into a shadow cast by the house. Not that I craved anonymity. It seemed completely natural for me to stand and watch the window, and wait for the woman to reappear. If she looked to the ground, she would see me, but I somehow knew she would not take offence. I realised that she, being close to the curtain, would be able to see through it and could be watching me. 

A hoped-for gust of wind whipped the curtain out of the window, and it became snagged on the rust-coloured shutter. The woman stood there, naked. She looked down at me and smiled with such warmth that my heart stopped for a second. I gulped in a breath of air. I could see her from the waist up and, for a moment, I studied her. Her torso was well toned, her skin tanned. As I looked at her perfect breasts, her aureoles puckered. My eye-line reached her broad shoulders and on to what I imagined were gold studs in her earlobes. I looked into her dark eyes and believed I saw the same humour I had seen in the smile that still lingered on her lips. Then a draught freed the curtain, and it fell gently back into place.

Yet, I did not move. My imagination could see the rest of her. It occurred to me that her smile might have been a wry one, having watched me drink in all I could see. I knew I would want to recall the experience many times, so I lingered, etching the scene in my memory. It had been a long time since I had felt such lust. The woman had sucked the breath out of my body. Should I leave with the remembrance of the experience, or stay to see what might follow? When the curtain did not move for ten seconds or so, I decided to leave.

As I was about to turn, the organza moved again. This time, her left hand swept the white fabric aside. Still, she stood naked. An inner heat changed the look on her face to an invitation. She extended her other hand and dangled a set of keys. My heart swelled while my stomach contracted. She jiggled the keys, and the sound snapped me back to reality. I remembered why I was alone, and I swallowed a lump that nearly choked me. I shook my head slowly and lifted my shoulders in a gesture I knew the woman would never understand. I would give anything to be able to accept her invitation, but my only option was to turn and walk away. To go back to my books, my garden, and my life ruined by the improvised explosive device on that road in Afghanistan.