George Meyer was pissed. Plenty pissed. "Fifty two fucking years old!" He ranted. "Twenty two fucking years of my life to finally get to the home office and now they want to fly my ass to Colombia? Fuck that!"
He crumpled the e-mail which his secretary had printed out for him and hurled it at the wastebasket. As usual, it missed, joining the other missiles that lay on either side of the yawning opening.
The office was roomy and comfortable as suited the Director of Marketing for this large international furniture company. George was smart, personable and tireless. He moved from General Sales Manager for the Midwest Region to this position two years ago. His three kids were grown, his wife died of cancer two years ago.
But now the company was expanding as manufacturing moved to China and they wanted an international footprint. So, George Meyer was asked, well told, to get his ass to Bogotá, Colombia to train the Central American sales force.
George spoke no Spanish. None. But as he had been told at the meeting he would have a fully bi-lingual sales manager who would help him with the training and the company had arranged for a Berlitz crash immersion Spanish course for him starting that evening.
Despite his growling and bitching, George Meyer was a good soldier and of course, he would go to Berlitz, take the fucking six-week course of private tutoring, then go to fucking Bogotá, and do a sensational job.
He wheeled the Lexus into the spacious parking lot of the office building that housed the Berlitz School, sighed a sigh of resignation and lifted his six-foot, one hundred eighty pound frame out of the car. George was an avid racket ball player, half marathoner and swimmer so at fifty-two he was still buffed and energetic. George had a rugged face, not bad looking but not magazine cover handsome. He had salt and pepper hair, cut short and tended toward blue or tan blazers and slacks.
He took the elevator up to the fourth floor, looked at his watch and realized by the time he left here he would have been on the go for over fifteen hours. "So, what else is new?" he muttered.
He introduced himself at the small front desk where a rather plump Spanish looking lady in what he guessed was her mid fifties, smiled at him and said, with a slight accent, "Have a seat Mr. Meyer, Mrs. Penuela will be right with you."
"Why do all Spanish broads have to wear clothes that show half their boobs?" George wondered to himself. Not that he minded, he thought. But that one could lose twenty and be a knock out.
As he completed the thought and sat down on a slim couch with very thin cushions, a girl spun through the door next to the desk that George assumed led to the classrooms. "Speaking of knock outs," George continued his thoughts. "There is one in the flesh."
She had long, shoulder length black hair, a skirt that ended just above her knees, huge brown eyes and a smile that looked like halogen lights turned on high beam. She was about five four, he figured. She had on a red V-neck sweater that
showed an ample bust line that just had to be natural. Her waist was trim and she exuded energy.
"Senior Meyer?" She inquired in a deep voice with a lovely Spanish accent. George felt it from his cheeks to his crotch. This one was special!
"Uh – yeah! Right!" He stuck out his hand and she took it in her small one. It was electric to the touch and he knew he was blushing, if ever so slightly. "I am so glad that you picked Berlitz, Senor Meyer. This is for business, yes?" Her voice, as she spoke English had no trace of an accent whatsoever. He couldn't even place it in the U.S. lexicon and he was pretty good at placing accents on a regional basis.
"Where you from, Mrs. Penuela?" He asked politely as they went through the doors and down a narrow hallway.
"Ah, Senor Meyer, in here call me Senora! I was born in Colombia, but came here at twelve. We lived in California until I got married and moved here."
She opened a door and ushered him into a small office. It had a white board, a table with two chairs on either side and a tape recorder on the table. She pointed to a chair and she sat on the other side of the table.
She handed him a sheet of words in Spanish with their English translations. They started with simple words, many of which were similar to English. She had this sparkling personality that drew him out of his usual gruff demeanor. He laughed as he struggled with pronunciation and she laughed back.
After two hours, he was pretty well exhausted. All through the lesson he had been semi-distracted by her. She would lean over the table to point out a word or phrase and as she did, her V-neck sweater would fall away a bit and he got a glimpse of well-rounded breasts enclosed in what looked like a semi-bra of blue lace.
They stood and she came around the table and took his hand. "Very good for a first lesson, Senor Meyer!" She said with genuine enthusiasm. He felt the electric shock again as they touched.
He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. They walked together to the front desk. The plump lady called to him. "Mr. Meyer! I have your work books here."
She handed him three ominous looking tomes. He frowned. Maria Penuela laughed. "Senor Meyer, do not look so disturbed! They really are simple and I will go through them with you. Next week we begin to use them."
"Well," he shrugged, "anything I can do in the mean time? I'd like to get ahead on this stuff."
"Of course!" She exclaimed. "Come, sit on the couch and I'll show you."
She sat down on the same thin couch he had encountered on his way in. He sat gingerly next to her. She reached over and took one of the books from him and her breast brushed his shoulder. He felt that shock again, stronger this time.
She was looking at him, smiling, but the smile seemed fixed. Her eyes on the other hand were searching his. He smiled and turned sideways on the couch.
"Well then," she said primly. "Why not try these first three vocabulary lessons before Wednesday, okay?"
He smiled at her, his steel blue eyes fixed on hers. "I'm game if you are."
She smiled the halogen smile again. "Always game, Senor, always game."
With that she rose and went to the front desk, exchanged a few words in Spanish with the lady there and headed for the door.
George was putting the books together and got to the door right behind her. "Hey!" He called.
She turned, half way to the elevator. The smile was in full evidence. "Si, Senor Meyer? You have another question?"
He smiled back. "Well, yeah. Look I know this is stupid and you have to get home, I'm sure, but..."
"But what, Senor Meyer?" She had stopped in the middle of the hall and faced him, legs apart, hands on hips.
"Well, it's damn near nine o'clock and I haven't eaten and I wondered, well, could I buy you a drink or something? – Look no strings attached, just well..." He had no idea where he was going with this or why. Damn! He made is living being glib and articulate and he felt he was fumbling like a teen ager.
"Strings, Senor Meyer? For dinner?" And she laughed a full, complete laugh, right from her gut. He felt it in his.
He laughed back, came up to her, took her arm and pushed the down button on the wall. "No m'am. No strings, unless you want Italian and strings means spaghetti in Spanish."
She smiled at him and led him into the elevator. In the lobby he asked "take my car? I'll bring you back for yours."
"I take the El home, thank you, Mr. Meyer."
"Oh – okay. Shall we go?"
She smiled the smile again and they went into the lot. He opened the door to the Lexus and watched her get in. He got a glimpse of strong, long legs as she swung into the seat.
As he went to his side he told himself "easy, George. Don't get carried away and for God sake stay politically correct!"
He drove about eight blocks to a little Italian restaurant he went to about twice a month. George had dated three or four times in the two years since Cassie
died, but nothing came of them. They were forty to fifty year olds very, very desperate for a full relationship. He had been to a couple of conventions and had been laid three times in three years at these conventions. Once with a five hundred dollar hooker – big mistake – and twice with girls from vendors of his company. Damn near charity fucks - for both of us, he thought at the time.
The sat on the outside patio. It was late May and the Chicago weather was being kind. He ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico Piccini and they talked. He told her why he had to take the course and that he was widowed. He told her about his three grown children and even pulled out the pictures.
She told him of her eight-year-old marriage and one child. How she was the only one in her family left in California and Felipe was a family friend and was always just there. They went shopping together, to concerts which he did not seem to enjoy, out to dinner which he did not seem to enjoy, and finally as she said "out of sheer boredom or momentum, we moved in together. Then I got pregnant so we got married, moved to Chicago," she shrugged her shoulders, "and here I am."
"Happy?" He asked and poured her third glass of wine.
"In my work, yes."
The waiter came by and he ordered for them. Penne pasta, artichoke salad and garlic bread. "Will your husband mind the garlic?" He asked.
She gave him the full-throated laugh. "He would not notice if I came home smelling of pig sty! Besides, he is at a web designers' convention for three days – in Denver."
