Gigi wore the hell out of a sundress. But like many people past sixty, she preferred one of the earlier versions of her body. The current Gigi was fleshy. Very little remained firm below the neck. The curves in her hourglass figure had become indentations. Afternoon sunlight showed her age on her face.
Still, solid shoulders held up her substantial bosom. Good posture and strong legs had defied age-related shrinking and allowed her to maintain a claim to being a six-footer. Even her reluctant decision to go gray had paid off. Sure, concessions to age and all, but she had dumped a semi-regular lunchtime liaison for daring to be indifferent to this body, and she drove home feeling proud of it.
Her grandson complimented that day's dress in his subdued way. Gigi asked grandmother questions while Tziyur put away bags of produce. Gigi didn't know him well enough to go beyond perfunctory talk. When Tziyur accepted the invitation to use her spare bedroom, she had not seen him in twelve years.
A few minutes later, Tziyur returned from upstairs in his running kit. Tight cycling shorts covered his lean hips. Desire flared in Gigi. She first felt it stir when he returned from the previous day's run with his tank in his hand, or maybe when he cooked supper in the ragged shirt and paint-spattered jeans he wore while working on his art in the basement.
As Tziyur filled his water bottle, Gigi asked the only question that came to mind. "How are your paintings?"
"Dark and murky," he said. "Everything looks like the bottom of Lake Huron."
And off he went. Dark and murky, Gigi thought. A reflection of the artist.
Tziyur insisted he cook as often as his teaching schedule allowed as payment for the room. He knew his way around a stovetop, but eating a meal at home with someone, even a beaten-down someone, nurtured Gigi more than fish and fresh vegetables.
"Did you know I'm on an album cover?" she said to break the silence.
"Uncle Jacque mentioned you modeled."
"Jacque's exaggerating, as usual. Here's what happened. A designer I knew wanted to help his musician friends create their album cover. He also wanted to get into my pants. That's how my photo made the cover of the only album released by an obscure rock band. The designer's other mission failed, by the way."
After a polite acknowledgement Tziyur went back to his salad.
Gigi wanted to keep him engaged. She said, "Another music story. A guy I knew set me up with this guitarist-songwriter who eventually became famous in a major way. No, I'm sworn to secrecy. At your age you've never heard of him, anyway. The future star sat in a booth at a bar with a female friend and her companion. I knew what I wanted immediately. I skipped out of the restaurant with the woman's date, moved to D.C., and lived with him for three years."
Tziyur looked amused for the first time since he arrived.
Gigi, like the entire family, wondered why his marriage ended. But with three divorces in her rear-view mirror, she understood that on some days you needed to talk about it and other days you needed to talk about anything else.
Most evenings, Tziyur either taught or held impromptu labs at the college. Tired of her own company, Gigi asked a friend to meet at a restaurant. Rimona offered her one of life's precious rarities: a person with whom she could share anything. The two had survived the wars together. Disappointment and divorce, marriage and mortality, college and career, money problems and miscarriage, addiction and heartbreak, and a thousand problems in the vast landscape of parenting.
Their bond transcended small talk. The server had yet to arrive with the drinks by the time Gigi confessed her thoughts about her grandson. Rimona held the expression of concern she always called upon when receiving confidential information.
"I don't feel guilty," Gigi said as she wrapped up. "Just weird. I realize this isn't close to the most shocking thing I've told you."
"Far from it," Rimona said. "He's Rachel's son. So, the estrangement with her means he didn't grow up with you around, correct?"
"I've seen him maybe four times."
"Babe, listen. You're daydreaming about younger men because one's under your roof. When was the last time you had non-work everyday contact with an attractive man in his twenties?"
"In my twenties," Gigi said.
"And you last slept with one when?"
"In my forties."
"Do you get a hint Tziyur's aware of your feelings?"
"Not in the least. He's in a depressed space. For all I know, he doesn't think women would notice him."
Rimona stopped her water glass mid-tip. She pointed across the room with her chin. "I hate to contradict you, doctor, but your diagnosis may be incorrect."
Gigi almost bit the tines off her salad fork. Her grandson was sitting down with Hapata Zinn. Gigi and Hapata had worked together on fundraisers and similar projects. Though polite enough, Hapata never dropped her go-getter businesswoman's demeanor. She acted like a capable adult sentenced to community service with a gang of well-meaning but incompetent retirees and hippy idealists.
Tziyur and Hapata sat at south and east on the compass rather than across from each other. Gigi kept looking at them while she ate.
"Hapata seems relaxed," she said in a quiet voice.
"And interested. She's leaned toward him the whole meal."
"Have you ever seen her with her hair down?"
"I'd have been less shocked if she showed up with a beard," Rimona said.
"She definitely busted out the push-up bra."
"With her chest the underwire must be titanium. At least we know he digs on older women."
"Hapata's exactly twice his age," Gigi said.
"A little more. Fifty-nine. She was a first year when I was a senior."
Gigi tried to read on her loveseat until ten o'clock. At eleven, she finished cleaning the refrigerator. She sat propped up on pillows staring across her dark bedroom when the church bells chimed at midnight.
Familiar with the rhythms of one-night stands, Gigi gave up. Her stomach burned. It was ridiculous to feel this way. But she had long ago accepted that emotions did what they wanted.
Gigi's imagination ran a maze of jealousy and lust. How did they proceed while making out on the couch? Did Hapata kiss softly or aggressively? A gentle probing with the tongue or smashing together between gulps of air? In Gigi's vision, Tziyur made her yelp with bites on the neck. Hapata unbuttoned him to stroke his chest while Tziyur's hand slipped into her dress and the bra inside it. What did he think of those beyond-generous tits? A dress strap fell onto Hapata's arm. The bra strap followed. Tziyur hungrily bent to her exposed breast.
"Yes, suck them," Hapata gasped. "Bite them."
Tziyur's hand dug under the band of her panties and cupped her wet sex. The second pair of straps fell. Hapata's breasts tumbled free and hung over her dress.
