This story is set abroad (for me) and involves a relationship where neither of us spoke much of the other's native tongue. As such it contains less dialogue than I would normally include. But I hope that it still appeals.
In my late 20s I was recovering from a messy divorce. We'd only been married a few years and it had, with hindsight, been a mistake from the outset. But the split had been acrimonious and had taken its toll on me: psychologically; physically; and financially.
Luckily we hadn't had children. So we didn't have that to unpick. But everything else had been tumultuous. My life was a mess and I needed to take stock and rebuild.
Fortunately I had a good job, as a software engineer. And when my company offered me the chance to work on a project in Portugal I jumped at the opportunity. I saw it as a chance to get away, lick my wounds and use the time to reflect on the mistakes I'd make. Plus I knew from a holiday there a few years earlier that it was a lovely country, with friendly people, good weather and great food.
I'd be there, initially, for three months, with an option to prolong the term if the local customer needed more input and I wished to continue. Lisbon was my base, though with occasional trips out to other sites across the country. But I was placed, at the company's expense, in a serviced apartment in a nice part of the City. Close to the bars and restaurants, but quiet and safe.
That said, in the first few weeks I had neither the desire nor confidence to go into the City. So I kept very much to my self. I was working flat out in the day but, as a contractor, worked largely on my own. In the business word most of my local colleagues spoke excellent English. So I was able to operate in something of an insular bubble. And that suited me in those early days.
Outside of work other than the odd exchange in the lift or lobby I had little or no interaction with the other residents in the apartment block. In fact, away from the office, the person I probably interacted with most was the cleaner/housekeeper who looked after the whole complex.
She wore the ubiquitous cleaner's uniform of white overalls and trainers. The uniform always seemed just a little too tight, showcasing her well built, curvy, figure. She wasn't fat (in my opinion anyway) but the embodiment of "womanly". With perfect black skin, cropped hair and a smile that, when she graced you with it, was utterly dazzling. Though I noticed, quite a lot of the time, that she looked quite glum. But I guess working for minimum wage, cleaning other people's floors and lavatories, can do that to you.
Initially I had no idea what she was called but over time we began to exchange pleasantries. I established that she was called Consuela and was, originally, from Mozambique, one of the old Portuguese colonies. Her English was poor and my Portuguese not much better. Though I was making an effort to improve it, via an app on my phone. And with a little practice in the workplace, plus local shops and cafes, I was becoming a little more proficient.
She'd overheard me one day practicing my Portuguese on my phone.
"You learn well. Good boy," she encouraged. "I help you?"
"God, yes please," I agreed immediately. I really did want to improve. And I knew regular conversations with a local would enhance that. But also, if I were honest with myself, I saw it as a further chance to spend a little more time with Consuela.
So most days, whilst she was in the flat, or even if we passed in the corridor, we'd converse - or at least I'd try to - in Portuguese.
Consuela seemed pleased that I was making an effort to learn. But took great delight in teasing my clumsy pronunciation. Laughing at me as I cursed the app when, despite my best efforts, it misunderstood what I was saying.
"That's what I said, you stupid machine," I'd groan, as it failed to register that I'd repeated (in Portuguese) "I'd like a room for tonight with a shower,", or whatever (slightly ridiculous) phraseology I was practising.
Whenever we'd meet I'd greet her in Portuguese, "com es tas (how are you)?" I'd inquire. "Tutu ben (very good)" she'd answer. Invariably breaking into a huge smile at my clumsy, but well intentioned, efforts. A smile that I was beginning to realise was one of the few bright spots in my rather grey, featureless, days.
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I'd always been fit and active. But over the last few months I'd let myself go. Drinking too much (on my own in the lonely evenings), eating poorly and neglecting the gym. But as I settled into a routine in Lisbon I began working out regularly. Running through the streets and parks in early morning and doing a series of exercises in the apartment on my return. I cut back on my alcohol consumption and ate more fish and salad. Soon feeling a lot better for it.
In fact, my limited time with Consuela, coupled with a general improvement in my mood and fitness as I was getting over the trauma of my divorce, saw my libido (which had taken a knock) return with a vengeance. I found that I was masturbating daily, if not multiple times a day. And I was aware that my internet searches increasingly included, "ebony", or "African."
One evening, as I returned from the office, I passed Consuela at the door of the apartment block, as she knocked off for the day. She'd changed out of her cleaners uniform and was in jeans and a vest top, both of them tight fitting. They illustrated further what an attractive figure she had. In fact, it was a knockout figure. She also wore a little make up and looked extremely attractive.
"Wow," I exclaimed, "you look terrific, really gorgeous." Which was a lot more forward than I'd planned to be. I'm not sure she understood exactly what I meant. Though my body language I'm sure gave a good illustration.
My language app didn't have a section on chat up lines, or complimenting hot women. Or if it did it was a mastery level that I was quite some way from achieving. So I then, in my faltering Portuguese, explained that I thought she looked really good. Though I was just a little less emphatic than I'd been in English. But I did say, "voce esta lindinha." Which I think meant, "you are pretty."
Whether I got the tense or pronunciation right I wasn't sure. But Consuela understood enough to be flattered by the compliment.
"Muito obrigado, thank you," she responded, with her skin, dark as it was, colouring at my obvious appreciation of her looks.
She explained she was going off to meet some friends for drinks. And further disclosed that, "my friends are fun. My husband old and boring." Causing her to grimace slightly at this description.
"Well," I reassured her, in my faltering Portuguese, "you are not old or boring. Voce parece chique (you look chic)."
"You smart too," she murmured in response. "But hair not," she giggled, tousling it lightly.
I was unusually taken by the gentle intimacy of this simple interaction. But also the heave of her ample chest as she carried out the act.
"I know," I agreed, blushing a little. "I need to get a haircut. I'll try to find a barber this week."
"I can do," Consuela replied, shyly. "I cut good hair."
"Ok, if you're sure, that would be really helpful," I agreed. Surprised by how excited I was at the idea of. it. We agreed she'd call by the next day after she finished her cleaning duties and I bade her a good evening with her friends.
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The following day in work I found myself in an unusually good mood. And I realised I was looking forward to spending a little time with Consuela, albeit in a functional capacity, as she gave me a much needed trim.
