This is a complete story under this title.
It has been pleasing to see that a few people have chosen to post a "favorite story" or "favorite author" to a couple of my submissions.
Thank you!
I value that more than five stars (that get lost in the average). But all of us here tend to read stories with an H (average 4.5 or better). If you really like a story, giving a high rating lets others know that someone thought it was good, a recommendation for them. I am sure other authors feel the same.
Comments are also appreciated. Let authors know what you think.
leBonhomme
*
I can't remember when I first noticed Mrs. O, a member of my tennis club. I know it was several years ago, back when tennis was more popular. Back then, one had to be at the club by 8:15 to reserve a court for 9:00. And then one had to watch to see that someone didn't cheat by moving your magnetic name tag to another court, or worse, removing it.
Probably that was when I first noticed her, an avid player, avid protector of her own reservation, but not above cheating. Did we first speak to each other when I caught her moving my name tag on the tableau of courts and times? Of course, I wouldn't have. Doesn't matter, and it couldn't have been a serious argument, since we greeted each other by name after that, just a little more personally than one greets other members, whose faces are only familiar.
However we met, after that I did watch her play, with younger, good players. She was younger than I, and looked even younger, her sportswoman's figure. I enjoyed watching her for a few years, wondering if I would have a chance playing against her, could be a fair match for her - just on the courts, of course.
She played so often that early in the summer her legs were soon tanned the color of the reddish clay courts, her arms too, of course, but I found it more interesting to look at her legs. Maybe it was only my imagination, but I had the impression that she placed her feet so that her thighs opened more than other players' did. Maybe she didn't, but I was recalling having read that traditionally Japanese women walked pigeon-toed to modestly keep their knees together. Frau O didn't when she took the last step before hitting the ball.
I liked my impression that she was completely unconsciously demonstrating a slight lack of the modesty the Japanese women had consciously shown - keeping their knees together, and she wasn't. Why should women keep their knees together? She didn't, and that always made it a little enticing to watch her, wondering if her male partners on the court had the same thought.
There was no excuse to ask them, and I certainly didn't know them well enough to even mention my impression. Eventually, indirectly, I learned that she was married with two children and that her husband worked for a firm in city so far away that he stayed in a flat there during the week.
I should explain that I was lucky enough to take early retirement, able to play tennis on weekdays, when Frau O did. I played with three different groups of partners, some of them also playing in the other groups with me. Each group included five or six persons, requiring a plan to rotate partners. I wasn't pleased when I ended up having to prepare the rotation lists: an odious task, trying to incorporate others' planned vacations, minimize dates when two, who didn't like each other, had to play together. And then there were times when only three of us turned up; the fourth person not having found a substitute. When we were lucky, we could recruit someone - anyone - waiting to play. When not, we had to play two against one.
Once, Frau O joined us. I don't know if it was good or bad for my game: wanting to impress her with my play, but being distracted by my thoughts about her legs, observing her open thighs at closer range, even when she was my partner returning the ball from the base line, when I should have been facing the net. We won that set, maybe more from her skill, but I did pretty well.
I have always noticed that men - even much older men - demonstrate surprising ambition when playing with a female partner. I probably also did - tried to - but playing with a strong partner usually inspires one to play better. Whatever, over coffee afterwards, as we were finishing, she asked if I was interesting in playing singles one day, before my usual doubles match an hour later. Of course, I was, and we agreed to meet on Tuesday the following week.
On the way home, I realized that I would have to have an explanation for my wife about having to go an hour earlier to play tennis. Luckily, a couple of times I had played singles with another man before my doubles match. No problem, she accepted my saying that I would meet him again. She also didn't know him or his wife well enough to happen to check.
Tuesday morning, I left the house with a slightly guilty conscience, not that I really should have had one; we were just going to play tennis. Did I play better than I had hoped - despite my looking too much at her legs? Did she let me win a couple of important points? Whatever, apparently we both enjoyed it, shaking hands at the net, her smile better than it had to be.
As we packed our bags, seeing my partners on the other court, she asked if I wanted to play again the next day. Apparently, she knew that I would be playing with my other group. Of course, I did.
At home, I told something believable to justify playing again with that man. Either he or I wanted a rematch. She didn't question my story. I was getting better at lying.
Wednesday morning, I just hoped that my game would make her suggest that we meet again the next week. She won, but that let me say that I wanted a rematch. She smiled and agreed, saying that we could play again the next Tuesday, but not on Wednesday. I liked, of course, her implication that she assumed that we would continue to play more often.
Tuesday, I wasn't on my list to play with my group, but my wife was accustomed to my playing most days and assumed that I would be. My other players would, however, notice that I was there playing with Mrs. O. Before we started playing, I mentioned that. She nodded with a smile and suggested that we just play for an hour as usual and then depart.
It doesn't matter how that match ended. We packed our bags, both waving to my friends, and left the court. Out of their sight, around the corner of the clubhouse, she beat me to the suggestion that we have a cappuccino. I insisted on paying, which she accepted, and we went in the clubhouse.
Since we both had wanted to talk, it was a pleasant conversation, telling each other how we started playing tennis. I had always played a little, never had lessons, just hitting the ball with other boys, then more regularly when I joined the club to play with new acquaintances after I moved to the city. She told that she had started playing to meet people when she and her husband and their two children moved here, telling that she had taken lessons at first. I complimented her ambition and obvious success. She said something about thinking that I was good enough to play on the club's team for my age group.
Since I knew that she played with several different persons, usually playing singles, I also mentioned something about her success at having made new friends and then asked how she found so much time to play. She smiled and explained that the previous year her husband had taken a better position in a city too far away to commute, staying in a small flat Monday to Thursday nights.
Without thinking that she was suggesting anything, I commiserated about her weekend marriage. She smiled lightly with a nod and then asked if I wanted to play with her the following week. She could have expressed it differently, but she had said: "play with me."
Maybe that was when I started getting ideas about not just playing tennis. Of course, I agreed. That was when she asked how I explained at home that I was playing tennis an hour earlier than usual. I chuckled and told that I had explained that my wife assumed I was playing with man whom she knew, but not well enough to call. She also chuckled and asked what day I wanted to play with him again. I checked my lists, seeing that I was playing both days, and we agreed to meet the following Tuesday. I paid for our coffee, and we shook hands, holding them a moment longer than before. Before we got in our cars, she waved to me with a smile, something she hadn't done before. Needless to say, I returned her wave and smile.
Driving home, I had more of guilty conscience, not that I really had reason to, except for my recalling her "play with me." It also seemed likely that I would be questioned about my supposed friend's wanting to play with me so often. I also expected that my usual tennis partners would remark about my playing with Mrs. O so often.
My wife didn't ask, but I did have to survive a couple of comment from my partners the next Tuesday when I joined them.
As she and I had been shaking hands at the net, I had mentioned to her my anticipation of their comments. She had smiled with a nod and said that she didn't want to cause me difficulties - "at home either." Then she had suggested that maybe "we could play with each other" on a day when they didn't play. I had agreed, of course, that that was a good idea, but also not without complications. She had nodded with an understanding smile and suggested we just meet a week later "either to play or just talk."
Thinking about her last remark was distracting during my doubles match, a mixed doubles. The two women certainly didn't open their thighs the way she did, and their thighs weren't as tanned or well-formed as hers.
The following Tuesday, I wasn't scheduled to play, but I still went to the club an hour earlier than I would have if my list showed that I were playing. She and I met in the parking lot. When I mentioned that I wouldn't be playing, she suggested that we could play until the before the others would arrive. I pointed out that one of them would have to arrive earlier to reserve a court, and that it would be even more obvious, if we suddenly left, perhaps meeting others then arriving. She nodded and then smiled slightly and replied:
"I said: 'either to play or just talk.' Then just talk, ... if you want, ... since we are both here."
I agreed, of course. On the way to the clubhouse, we realized that it was too early to get coffee. She immediately suggested that we could go to her place - she said "my place" not "our place."
As we turned back towards our cars, she remarked:
"It won't be cappuccino, just normal coffee."
"Fine," I agreed, adding: "With milk and sugar."
"Of course, even with fresh cream; I like that better."
