This is a first story from a long time lurker.
My grateful appreciation for editing, goes to Kenji Sato.
EAST WEST RELATIONS
When Greg had finished reading his mail he said to himself "well that's it then." Sighing, he placed the final Decree of Divorce Certificate down on the table. Finding himself alone, for the first time since his teenage years. Unburdened by marital restraints, free as a bird, open to new adventures. But totally miserable. It hadn't been an acrimonious split-up, but painful all the same. They had seemed the perfect couple, Greg and Sylvia Davies, and they had believed they were a forever couple. Hah!
Greg's marriage woes were compounded by covid, there had been a lot of downsizing and reorganizing in their chosen fields. Their dwindling finances were in a precarious place. That,,m and the fact that Sylvia, had met someone else, further aided in the disruption of their marriage. Funnily enough, they had stayed friendly with each other. Something remained, but not enough to be together. Sylvia and her new partner, were distancing themselves, of course. C'est la vie.
While not financially placed to purchase or rent proper digs right away he looked for temporary housing in the 'rooms-to-let' categories of the net, and he had even bought a newspaper for the classifieds. It had been a while since he'd read the newspaper and had forgotten how much he enjoyed the tactile feel.
It didn't take long for him to find an ad for a large room in a good neighbourhood, near everything needed in the way of amenities. He wouldn't have to share a bathroom and there was a kitchenette which included a toaster oven, a two-burner induction plate, an apartment-sized fridge and a microwave. Also included were a good selection of cooking utensils and cutlery for two. This was all fine and dandy for someone who was going to have to upgrade his cooking skills to conserve resources. After he had forwarded the requested job info and references, he was granted an interview.
When he met with his potential landlady, he was pleasantly surprised. She was an attractive women with a medium build, a full chest, and obvious curves. She was of South Asian ancestry, dressed in jeans, and a form fitting blouse. He guessed she was maybe forty-five years old and about five feet five inches tall. She appeared to be quite healthy and fit.
Greg had kept himself in reasonable shape, as well. It helped that he was born with the 'stay slim' metabolism, much to the consternation of some of his friends, who as they aged, found that no amount of running or gym visits could prevent the onslaught of undesirable pounds.
Greg hoped he wasn't obtrusively staring at his potential landlady, but he couldn't help remembering some of his past fantasies that had included women of South Asian descent. Part of his fascination had resulted from stories he had read about the British occupation of India in the early 19th century. Many women, in those times, did not take kindly to the occupiers and their cavalier and brutal treatment of some classes of women. Allegedly, with a cruel placement of razor blades in strategic areas. Let's just say you could enter, but you might not leave with all that you entered with. It made him shiver, but he was excited by the ingenuity and courage of these exotic women.
She invited him in, and after serving tea, they began talking the business of accommodation, seated in incredibly comfortable but formal chairs in her living room. His chair was placed in such a position for him to enjoy the erotic beauty of his potential landlady. She introduced herself as Isha, which he later found out meant 'supreme'. She sat comfortably and elegantly, her legs crossed. Being an active horn dog he wished she had been in a skirt, or even a sari.
She let him know she had done as much due diligence as the internet would allow, and had even contacted a couple of his references, etc. They chatted, getting to know each other and she explained that it was just herself and her husband, who occupied the house permanently, but they had a twenty-year-old son and nineteen-year-old daughter. They were both attending university in town and had apartments near there, although they do, often, come home unexpectedly for a home cooked meal, with full bags of laundry and to crash in their old rooms.
Things went swimmingly and they got along quite well; and, what with his history, demeanour and references along with a scant social media presence, he was found to be a suitable candidate.
Next up was to check the rooms out. It was down a wide set of stairs just off the kitchen. He followed Isha, his leering eyes glued to the purposeful swing of her posterior that gave him pause. Her walk mesmerized him, as the movement of her ass had Greg wondering if she was or had been a dancer. Maybe that could be investigated another time.
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, she pointed out the storage area, mostly filled with her kids' sports gear and he could see a kayak standing in the corner. It was a three-quarter- basement apartment. The door to the apartment opened into the long hallway they had descended to; it was at ground level. The house had been dug into a small hill, explaining why there were windows on one side only. The windows ran the whole length of the room, facing into the hall and out to the yard side, and sliding doors to an outdoor patio area. A laundry room was at one end of the hall with the storage area at the opposite end by the stairs.
The apartment was not your regular rental, in that it had windows with heavy blackout curtains along the same side as the entry to the main room. To get natural light, he would have to leave the curtains open. The previous homeowners had been artists and Greg was in their studio, which explained the windows with north-facing light. There was a second much smaller room that had a double-futon bed that was set as a couch.
"It's not very old and has never been used. You are welcome to use it, if you wish. It folds down into a bed," Isha explained.
"Thanks, I'll try it. It's been a long time since I slept on a futon," replied Greg.
"Good, that saves us having to get my son to move it somewhere. Oh, and there is a small closet in the corner. It's not large but could be useful."
The sliding doors opened onto a small stone patio. It did not seem to get much usage, but it had a couple of outdoor chairs and a small table. Isha told him that this door could be his main entrance to the house. Also there's the side door entrance from the driveway available to him. Both doors had punch codes. Isha would supply his own code which would work for both doors.
This set-up would be perfect, he hoped, as a temporary living arrangement. They agreed on the monthly rent, as he didn't want to do weekly. He would move in at the start of the month, in three days time. At present, he was crashing at a friend's house with most of his possessions in storage. So he had to work that all out.
His spirits were lifted somewhat after moving in, and it was time for a new start in life. Here he could surround himself with some of his stuff and have some much needed privacy, that which lacking at his buddy's place, he could concentrate on moving onward and upward.
Greg was aware that it would take a while to settle in, what with the new senses overload, including the new place and the constant aromas from the kitchen, enjoyable as they were. Then there were the family conversations, which were, sometimes, audible to him, switching between Hindi and English.
On the evening of his moving in, he'd been invited upstairs for a meal where he met Isha's husband, Chandra, who, while friendly also seemed wary of a newcomer to his home. Their son happened to be there that night, but they spoke very little because of his constant attention to his phone.
Isha made up for it, keeping the conversation light and moving. She was very interested in Greg's history and was very forthcoming, in general, about her family's journey to this country. It was soon obvious that she was in charge of this home.
