Dr Gregorio Aquino awoke to the same 7am alarm he could've sworn he turned off the previous morning. Still, at least he wasn't hungover this time. Silencing his smartphone, he extended his right arm without looking round. To his mild bewilderment, his groping hand found the other half of the king-size bed empty.
Rubbing shards of rheum from his eyes, Gregorio sat up. Across the room, he could see the bare brown back of Serafina Concessao. He was a tad puzzled by the size of the skin folds around her hips; they should only be that generously proportioned with her skirt on. As his eyes worked their way down, his eyebrows raised he saw the waistband of her green-and-white plaid skirt.
The eighteen-year-old Indian was standing over the ironing board from the walk-in closet. Gregorio kept his questions to himself as he leant back against the bed's leatherbound headboard, taking in the scene that had inspired an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
It took him back nine years, to an evening he'd spent escorting a so-called dignitary around some post-conference junket in his capacity as a United Nations interpreter. When his client had become too drunk to annunciate anything for Gregorio to translate, he'd struck up a conversation with one of the champagne waitresses to kill time.
At party's end, their conversation had felt sufficiently unfinished for Gregorio to invite her back to his apartment. After talking about God knows what for God knows how long, the pair passed out in his lounge fully clothed. The following morning, he'd awoken to the smell of hot steam.
He'd opened his eyes to the sight of his guest in a plaid skirt (with a different pattern to Serafina's) and bra, ironing the white shirt she apparently wore for both work and high school. Within a week, she effectively moved into his guestroom. Within a couple months of her graduation, he and Sachiko were married.
"Going somewhere?" he asked in English.
"Just making myself presentable," replied Serafina without looking around.
"Don't forget you'll be wearing layers."
"You didn't see the creases. It looked like a bloody Kleenex."
Gregorio couldn't help smiling at the richness of her Indian accent. It was a pleasure to hear someone not water down their native twang for local consumption, something he'd previously been guilty of.
"You could've taken it off sooner, you know?"
"Hindsight," said Serafina, waving a hand dismissively.
Gregorio grinned. Once he'd come around after firing his first salvo, the pair had disrobed and indulged in multiple encores. He couldn't remember quite how many more loads he'd shot overnight, but he wasn't about to ask whether she had the pills she'd mentioned last night to on hand. He didn't want to jeopardize any further encores by antagonizing the girl.
Sliding out of bed, Gregorio raided the suitcase lying open on the floor for clean underwear. Slipping past the topless Serafina, he visited the bathroom. Having applied a fresh coat of gel to his short black hair, he stepped out in time to watch Serafina buttoning up her shirt. He stood there, gawking shamelessly until her ample and entirely braless bust had (mostly) disappeared beneath the garment.
"Forgetting something?" asked Gregorio, eyeing the bra still lying at the foot of the bed.
"It's too bloody small. You saw how it exploded last night," said Serafina, popping her collar to put on her red necktie. She paused when she noticed Gregorio still gawping at her chest. Her umber nipples were staring back at him through the translucent white fabric, "It's like you said, I'll be wearing layers."
Gregorio struggled to break 'eye' contact with them until her emerald green blazer intervened. Returning to his suitcase, he fished out blue jeans and a white shirt of his own. Once dressed, he did a quick sweep of the floor to ensure Serafina hadn't left any other surprises for the maid before joining her by the door.
"Want me to button up again?" asked the Indian, pulling on her jade overcoat.
"Hold that thought," replied Gregorio, reaching for his wallet.
Down in the first-floor elevator lobby, a waiting bellboy nearly dropping the dry-cleaning he was holding as the doors rolled open and Serafina walked by. Gregorio followed close behind, carrying her coat and blazer over his arm. She left a trail of rubberneckers en route to the front door, where the epauletted doorman forgot to tip his top hat.
Out on the street, Gregorio proposed doubling the wager. Despite the shrill breeze blowing in off the Atlantic, Serafina gamely agreed. The duo proceeded around the block in lockstep, the wobbling umber medallions beneath her shirt clearing them a path all the way to a certain Puerto Rican café. Outside the eatery, the schoolgirl graciously accepted her blazer in addition to a $100 bill.
Once coffee and mallorcas had been consumed, Gregorio let slip he felt obliged to find a late Easter Sunday mass to attend. He was more surprised than he should've been when Serafina said she'd join him. He was still kicking himself for not figuring out her Goan background sooner when they filed into the back of the church Gregorio had frequented for a decade.
Trusting his fellow congregants (most of whom he still recognized) wouldn't mistake Serafina for a cosplaying hooker, he didn't stop her removing her coat for the mass. Afterwards, they made a beeline for the hotel where a familiar limousine was already parked in the semi-circular driveway.
Once Gregorio had settled his bill, he joined the schoolgirl on a bench while his turbaned chauffeur Mr. Jethani loaded the limo's trunk.
"Well, Miss Concessao-"
"Why so formal all of a sudden?"
"My apologies. Elephant_Rider61 it is."
"Sera's good enough for most people," said Serafina, smirking as she noticed the Honduran's gaze not quite lining up with hers.
Half an hour later, the limo was cruising through Brooklyn. Mr. Jethani had been less than enthused with the requested detour, although the $500 in his pocket had eased the blow to his professional pride. The money hadn't quite bought his passengers the absolute privacy they thought they were paying for, but a man had to look out for his upholstery.
Besides, Gregorio was much too distracted by the bare breasts bouncing in front of his face (among other things) to notice a three-centimeter gap at the top of the divider.
"Thanks for everything, Sera," Gregorio half-whispered as the car pulled up outside JFK.
The bottomless schoolgirl climbed off his lap, flopping into the cream leather seat beside him. Her bare chest still heaving, the best she could manage was a dopy smile and limp wave as he fixed his jeans and exited the limo. It was past midnight when he finally reached San Toribio.
After his obligatory trip to Easter Monday mass the next morning, Gregorio spent the afternoon in his lounge. He kept one eye on whatever soccer game the local UniMás affiliate was showing, and the other on a heap of ungraded practice test papers on his coffee table. The sport was forgotten completely as he picked up the paper bearing the name of Xiomara Qinallata.
