Call me lucky. Forty three years old and in bed with a nineteen year old. This one wasn't a slapper, this one was as pretty as they come with a body to match. She said I was her first and I'm certain it was true. Sunday morning and I looked at the clock. It was six minutes before it would be Sunday afternoon. My lover of exactly ten hour seventeen minutes was on her stomach beside me her face towards me. She moved, her eyes were still closed and she smiled. The sheet had slipped from her shoulder and I could see the rounding of her breast. Her hand that had been resting on the pillow by her head disappeared below the sheet. "I like having a cock and especially this one," she said taking hold of my morning hard on.
Basma's parents came from Iran, chased by the regime of intolerance. They were muslims and still adopted the dress of their country of origin. Basma was proud of her heritage and always wore a head scarf. A head covering that framed her very pretty face. The rest of her attire disguised her exquisite body. She was a student at my university. She was studying politics and philosophy. Not my subjects, I was bioengineering. It was three weeks before the end of the second semester or third term as we called it in my student days.
We met by chance. One of those stupid things that happen and you feel a right fool. For once I was in the canteen, not that I usually have time to eat lunch. That day I did and found something that sounded remotely appetising. Ordered and paid. I was carrying my tray and thinking of something other than finding a table. There as an empty table and I headed for it. She obviously spotted it at the same time. Unbeknown to both of us we were on a collision course. The inevitable happened and we collided. Not hard, just enough to spill some of her orange juice onto the tray.
"Oh dear, I'm terribly sorry. Look you sit down and I'll get you another." "It's fine, it's just a little spill." "I'll get some napkins." By the time I returned she had begun her food. Some rice dish. "So sorry about that. My mind was elsewhere." She leaned in. "No need to keep saying sorry. As much my fault as yours." I smiled. "I'm doctor Sanderson, Mike to my friends." "Basma Ali."
We chatted a little. She told me about her course and I spoke about my work. She seemed to enjoy my company and I so enjoyed her's. That was our first meeting. Two days later we met again. I'd gone into the library to find a textbook. Yes we do have a library and no everything isn't done on line. The reason I was there was to check on a text I'd read many years earlier. With so much on the internet it is easy for students to plagiarise work and call it their own. I had one student who was very good. His last essay had been a brilliant summary of an assignment question. Don't get me wrong he was very good but this piece of work struck something in me. That was on my mind when I met Basma for the first time. Now it was eating me up.
I found the book and took it to one of the desks. I sat. I looked up when she spoke "Doctor Sanderson, we meet again." She sat beside me, placed a book on the desk opened her bag and took out a pad. I could see from the corner of my eye she was reading and taking notes. She would stop and look across at me and smiled. She did that a few times over the next hour. "What are you reading?" She whispered." "Just checking on some text." She looked at me. "I have a suspicions one of my students is plagiarising work from an older text book." "Oh dear, plagiarising. Serious business. Will he be kicked out?" "Depends on how serious the dean takes it." "And you will tell him if it's true?" "I have to otherwise it wouldn't be fare to all the others who work so hard." "I'll have to be careful what I use in my assignments."
We went back to what we were doing. She smiled again and I smiled back. "You got no home to go to Mike?" She asked looking at me. "Empty house now. I'm afraid to say my wife who I thought was the love of my life didn't think the same about me. Ran off with one of my PhD students. Last I heard they had gone to the states. Stanford someone said. Haven't had a word from her since the divorce." "Oh dear. You lonely?" "Sometimes but I do have my work." "Why don't I buy sad lonely Doctor Sanderson a coffee?" "Drink would be nice but I don't suppose you indulge?" "No, coffee, tea or orange juice are fine, that's as long as you don't throw it all over me."
I let her buy me a coffee in the little shop across the road. That was the start of things. It became a routine we would meet in the library, work for an hour or more than drink coffee for another hour. Then things went up a gear. Friday evening and I was unpacking my case to spend the weekend writing some course material. "Would you like to go dancing?" "Dancing, with you?" "Yes with me," she said, "I wouldn't ask for anyone else." "I'm a bit past night clubs." "Okay take me to dinner." "To dinner?" "Yes dinner. I like you and would love to have a meal and a few drinks with you." "Okay where would you like to go and when?" "How about tonight and there's a little curry house down by the old market." "Sounds good to me." "You can pick me up in half an hour." She told me the address.
We had a lovely meal. I'm not usually a big curry eater, or wasn't until that night. We had soft drinks, fruit juices and the like. We talked a lot and I found out she was into cooking. All middle eastern and Indian cuisine. "Why don't I come around to your place some time and cook you a meal." "That sounds delightful. You say when and I'll expect you." We talked a lot more, I told her about my divorce and why. All the while she was shaking her head. An unfaithful wife was something Basma found detestable. "If you were mine I'd not cheat on you, ever."
It was eventually time to leave and I drove her home. "Next Friday, I'll come around and you can taste my food." She kissed me on the cheek and left me sat in the car wondering what just happened. I was on a high and I didn't know why. I did know, I was in love with Basma. I told myself I was a sad old man with a schoolboy crush. I couldn't wait until Friday.
It was still a shock when the door bell rang. I'd taken my tie of and tried to look casual. I opened the door and in she came. She stopped to kiss me on the check. I followed her into the kitchen and she set about cooking. We talked, I made tea and we talked some more. She told me about Iran and how she and her family escaped. She had been eight when they left. Enough time for her to develop a British accent, actually quite a posh accent. Father had been a pharmacist and mum a doctor so it was easy enough for them to find work. Basma had been to private school. That I presumed was where the accent changed.
The meal was delicious and we sat in silence enjoying just being in the same room. "I'll do the washing up," she said. "No you won't. It all goes in the dishwasher and I can do that. You young lady have done enough tonight. That was a fantastic meal, one of the best I've ever had. I wish I could cook like that." She smiled. "I could teach you, if you like." "That would be good but you have work to do and exams aren't far away." "Be all right. Me coming over for a couple of hours won't be a trouble." "You sure?" "Positive. Now if you find me a pen and some paper I'll write you a list of things I'll need. I'll be here on Tuesday at six so that gives you a couple of days to go shopping."
"You wouldn't mind giving me a lift home. I came on the bus and I'm a bit light on cash." "Oh dear, I'm so sorry I should have known. Yes of course. Just say when." I drove her home. She leaned over and kissed me on the lips and then she was gone. I sat wondering where our friendship was going. I realised I had a hard on.
