Summer classes had always been a drag for me. The students were always more captivated by the rays of sunlight crashing through foggy classroom windows than with my explanations on how context was one of the most important aspects to master when translating a literary work. And more often than not the students were as fogged up as the windows were as they fought off the haze of the previous night's partying. Not that I blames them -- there were still parts of my early days attending university that were a blur.
But that had ended a long time ago. I was the teacher now -- a 37 year old widower trying to hustle along a small group of students who needed extra credits to get into their respective programs. This summer's crop was comprised of 18 students, mostly young women headed for careers teaching English as a second language or completing a communications degree. That made the whole ordeal more palatable though: I was teaching at a French university and the young women in Québec were just about the most beautiful and carefree I'd encountered in all of Canada.
But the cardinal rule as a teacher was never cross the line and become involved with a student -- funny that I should stick to such a rule since that was how I'd met my wife. She'd been doing her masters and made extra money as a teacher's aid while I was a student in her class. She was only 5 years older than me, a lithe, slim woman with sharp features, bright brown eyes and long, straight red hair and a mind as sharp as a freshly forged katana -- a stark contrast to my barrel chested physique better suited to working a field that mastering the works of Leonard Cohen or Marguerite Atwood. My hair was short and I sported a full beard (my rebellion against the mounting trend towards androgyny). I fell in love with her the moment she pronounced the first syllable of my name. With the determination of a bloodhound after and escaped convict, I finally convinced her to go out with me. From that day we never looked back. We went through a traditional courtship and we married after dating for a year. I was 21 and she was 26 and we were happy.
Fifteen years later, fate thought I had it too good and decided to even things out: my wife, Sonia, became a statistic for the ministry of transportation. Another death related to drunk driving, serving to justify another shocking ad campaign to be aired on television.
But, as time went by and mourning drifted more and more towards forgetting, the faculty requested I get back into the game.
So it was June 19th and I was writing my name on the blackboard in front of 18 pairs of weary eyes that dreamed of beaches and sunshine and Molson beer.
"My name is Colin Reilly," I said as I highlighted my name by underscoring it with a screeching streak of chalk. Faces winced and shoulders exposed by skimpy halter tops shuddered as the sound pulled the students from their reverie.
I looked at the chalk with a scowl. "Remind me not to do that again," I said to the classroom while tossing the piece of chalk onto the simple folding table that served as my desk.
I held their partially divided attention while I distributed the list of class objectives and outlined the expectations I had for them. I then went back to my desk and asked them to outline what they expected from me and the course. I was greeted by a litany of clichéd statements in broken English about improving skills and getting a better grasp of the nuances of the language.
But all that grounded to a halt when I reached the last 2 students -- they were seated right next to the exit at my left. I had noticed them intently listening to me while I presented the course but now the intensity with which they both observed me was unnerving. They stood out like beacons of sexuality and their beautiful eyes were riveted on me and I was suddenly very self-conscious about the way I looked: I'd shaved that morning but stubble already shaded my cheeks and chin; my hair was basically cut in an old fashioned buzz cut, but it did complement my wide face and square jaw (so I'd been told); I wore silver rimmed glasses that highlighted my blue eyes (that was how they were sold to me); I wore khaki colored shorts and a white linen shirt -- I knew my calves and forearms were bare and I was proud of their pronounced musculature. I played serious tennis 4 times a week (the only activity that kept me sane after Sonia died) -- but I did have beer/age induced love handles and fine lines around my eyes and mouth.
My self-consciousness quickly dissipated as I admired the young women I'd apparently captivated. The one closest to me -- I remembered from when we had introduced ourselves her name was Gitane (pronounced Gee-Tan) -- was a short brunette with long flowing hair and big brown eyes frames by red glasses resting on a regal nose. Her oval shaped lips were shaded a deep crimson and where they joined seemed to trace a line that delimited her unblemished, oval shaped face. Though she was seated, her ample breasts were on prominent display in the black, thinly strapped halter she wore. Her cleavage rose hypnotically as she breathed in a controlled manner. I noticed a red, lacy bra strap peeking out from beneath halter straps. I saw from beneath her desk a pair of finely toned legs peeking from a white, flowing skirt -- and I realized she had subtly guided my overview of her taut, young body with the force of her gaze.
Behind Gitane was Roma. She was an example of timeless beauty: she possessed a high forehead crowned by long and wavy blond hair she kept parted on the side. Her tresses framed broad, symmetrical features -- her gems were beautiful, big hazel eyes that seemed to sparkle when they caught the light at just the right angle. Roma's eyebrows were thin and accented her facial expressions with a sense of elegance, yet the small mole near her right eyebrow maintained a sense of whimsy to her every smile. Above the crescent of her sharp chin was a naturally alluring, heart-shaped mouth carved from thick, sensual lips. Roma wore a low-cut, green wrap-around shirt. She tilted her head slightly to the left, allowing for some of her locks to drift upon her chest and my gaze fell upon the exposed, golden skin between her breasts. Though much smaller than Gitane's and somewhat less firm, Roma's breasts swayed freely with her every motion, adding to her aloof, free-spirited sensuality.
I was staring at a pair of living wet dreams -- every alarm bell suddenly went off in my head and I steadied myself and walked back around my desk and quickly sat down, hoping none had noticed the mounting tent in my khakis.
Before I could say anything Gitane broke the silence that had embraced the class while I'd traded conspicuously long glances with her and Roma. "Roma and I want always want to meet every challenge we come across," Gitane said with a light French accent. Her voice was low and rumbled with the ease of someone used to getting what she wanted.
"Dat's right m'sieur Reilly," Roma chimed in. Her voice was more musical and more heavily accented than Gitane's -- I suddenly imagined them saying my name in tandem while I would explore their supple forms with every moving part of my body.
The alarm bells in my head and the churning in my stomach and the resurrected erection in my pants screamed a quarrel between my obligations as a teacher, the respect I owed Sonia's memory, and the desire long dormant since her death.
"Well, I'm sure your both up to the challenge this summer has in store for you," I said. After saying those words and reading the hungry look and sly smiles on their young faces I realized I'd just invited these two 20 year-old minxes to try and seduce me. The temperature in the classroom climbed a few notches and I could feel the eyes of the other students bore into me till I gave them what I felt had to be a dangerous smile, warning them that this was between me and the girls. I licked my lips an quelled any objections my reason or memories could raise.
Sonia's face flashed briefly before my eyes, her broad smile somehow condoning my desires.
"So lets get this show on the road," I said with renewed vigor and had them pull out their text books.
