Swati Biswas had turned 49 earlier in the month. It was a quiet sort of birthday with no big celebrations. Her only close friend in the city had booked a dinner at a restaurant. They had enjoyed the fine dining experience with drinks plenty, both being self-deprecatory and wistful about how time had flown by, and how they were nearing half a century: the big 50 when the end was nearer than the start.
She was an average height (5' 5") plump woman, and didn't mind what she looked like. Age brings with it with a kind of acceptance of all the flaws and lines on the face, the sagginess of things. She had an attractive wheatish complexion and age had lent to her a smokiness around her eyes that men found alluring.
Swati had resigned to a life alone where she had a good career and job, financial security, help around the house and no drama with enough distance from her ex- husband and his family. Some parts of the divorce was quite bitter and drawn out, and it was a relief when the legalities ended and she could heal properly. Meeting other men romantically hadn't happened except a couple of flings where she had wanted to have fun but the sex was as disappointing as with her ex, either she was not into it or they didn't know how to satisfy her. A sad realization dawned that she had gone through her most fertile, active years without experiencing the thrill of what she had fantasized about in her head. What was surprising and frustrating was that her drive was higher lately, the single life letting her explore herself a bit more.
Her son K had arrived from the town where he went to business school and she knew he had slowly blossomed into a desirable young man after the awkward teenage years. He had odd interests: listening to old school slow burning tunes, jazz music, ghazals, swaying to it in solitude and reading classics that his generation (Gen Z) normally wouldn't touch with their limited attention span. She had come to like the music wafting through from the living room at a volume that was soothing to her, every time he came home.
He planned to stay for two weeks before going to his father's house and returning eventually for a hectic semester. Swati was thankful that the signs of separation had started to appear when he was ending his teen years. That is when when he started to notice the fights and cracks, and he had enough maturity to handle it well. He brought with him some chaos and unruliness, getting up late and going out late in the evening to meet his friends, and lapping up any food items he could get his hands on. He was twenty two years of age and had that sort of lankiness and glow of a man approaching full adulthood, yet he had a boyish quality about him still. Swati still saw him as her boy.
On the third day of his stay, he dusted off and took his vinyl player out late evening and played an Ella Fitzgerald tune. Swati loved that song, and sat on the couch, listening and a bit lost. K said something out of the blue "Ma, remember how Dad used to occasionally want to dance with you years ago when it was time for me to sleep. What songs would be play?"
Swati dismissed off the question "He did not have much rhythm in his body. Those songs don't matter, I don't want to think about or hear those"
K muttered - "My songs are better for that sort of thing anyway" and turned away to play another record...
The next day, K set the same scene, playing an old crooning jazz standard while reading a book. Swati, tired after her work, joined him in the adjoining sofa with her laptop. As he got up to change the LP, he passed by her. And Swati caught a glimpse of his grey sweat pants, and thought to herself he seemed to be fitting it rather well. She looked at his butt, not a lot men are blessed with a shapely tush that a woman can admire. After realizing her mind went to dicks and shapes and sizes, she admonished herself about the fact that it was her son that triggered that thought. What was wrong with her?
K said "Ma, dance with me?" playfully.
