*** I am NOT a native English speaker and although my English is, by all means, pretty good, it isn't perfect. If the smallest mistake or a not-so-common sentence construction puts you off, I suggest you skip this one. No hard feelings, really, I'm just being honest! But if you think that contents can beat the occasional "we is" (just kidding!), then read on.
On other news, I love feedback. If you like the story, please let me know. If you don't, but can make constructive criticism, let me know also! And if you just feel the need to be harsh, go ahead too, it's your right. I promise I'll not be hash back, it's not worth it. :-)
Last but not least, this is a work of fiction, any resemblance with real people or names is purely a coincidence. ***
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It was almost a habit of mine: when I was eighteen/nineteen, I flirted a lot with older women. Now, don't think I was some type of "toy boy", because I wasn't... I was fairly good-looking, but very timid and a little nerdy and, as such, my flirting never, ever have gone beyond that: flirting. Maybe currently it would be easier for me, but it was in the 1990s, where women (especially married ones) were even more judged by society than today.
I'm not saying I would not get the casual smile back or even a few second looks, but if I tried to make any advances (I did try a few times, overcoming my shyness) I was always rebuked, with them changing their behavior and avoiding my stares, discouraging me from even trying to start a conversation.
But perseverance is everything, even when you think it's futile...
It was a normal day like any other and I was on the bus going back home from college and a mother, with her ten-year-old or so son, caught my attention as soon as she entered the bus. She was in her early forties, with black, shoulder-length hair, a little overweight and a pretty common face, not beautiful nor ugly. She was the prototype of the stay-at-home mom, her ring clearly visible on her hand, taking her son back from school and looking ahead to an afternoon of house chores and cooking for the husband. Anyway, as soon as she sat down I changed places, so I could be a little ahead of her in the bus, and started to occasionally look back at her, discreetly but insistently.
She didn't notice at first, probably because she was not a looker and was dressed like someone that gave up the idea of seducing guys on the streets a long time ago. She just kept talking to her son about something, and I was almost giving up any hope when her eyes finally met mine by pure coincidence when she looked ahead to try to see if her stop was coming. As I stared at her, her expression clearly showed that she thought I knew her from somewhere and that she was trying to find out who I was, but as soon as I smiled at her, five seconds later, she blushed hard and looked down.
From then on, every time I looked back I could clearly see that she was well aware of my attention and enjoying it, although she didn't look back. Her artificial behavior gave up she was feeling pretty for the first time in a long time, and her discreet, but noticeable smiles with herself showed how good to be noticed by me made her feel.
Less than five minutes later, though, the bus was arriving at my stop. I couldn't even think of continuing in the bus, as I had lots of things to do at home and my mother was waiting for me, so I reluctantly got up from my seat and walked to the exit door. As soon as I got to the door I looked back and to my - and hers - surprise, she would, too, get off the bus on that stop. She looked clearly uncomfortable, but as she didn't have a choice, she took her son's hand and walked towards me at the same time that the bus stopped.
I got off and started to walk slowly, followed by her, and as took the first right - the street where I lived - she again followed me. She lived in the same street I did! I kept looking back, but she was looking straight ahead, again clearly aware of my stares but not wanting to let me know, and I could see when she entered the second building of the street. Now I was not even trying to be discreet, and I almost turned back to look when she finally, as soon as she entered through the glass door, looked back at me and smiled, feeling "safe" from any attempts I could make to talk to her but at the same time clearly proud of my interest.
All I could do was to watch her going inside, her plump but inviting ass swinging under her dress, until she disappeared inside the building.
***
From that day on I was obsessed with her. She was the first older woman that gave me any indication that she could, at some point, give in to my advances and so I did what any horny teenager would do: I started to stalk her on the bus stop.
I knew where she got into the bus, as I've seen her entering it, and I knew the school where her son studied by his uniform, so it was not hard to "bump" into her periodically. I couldn't do it every day as my college schedule didn't allow, but two or three times a week our secret ritual took place: I would get into the right bus, well aware that it would be the same bus she would get a few stops ahead; she would then arrive with her son, and I would stare at her more and more lasciviously each day. She, too, started to change, at first in the way she behaved - looking at me briefly from time to time and smiling, making it clear that she knew what was happening - and then starting to dress smartly and to wear make-up, what she didn't do before. The problem is that our trip would end the same way day after day, week after week, with her avoiding me completely as soon as we got off the bus and making clear, by the way she acted, that she didn't want me to talk to her on the street.
It was obvious, after some time, that she really, really liked the attention, that the inner teenager she had inside her wanted to show herself, but that her fear of being seen or that her husband could find out was too much for her. In short, it was a dead end, unless something very different could happen.
And it did.
It was a Saturday, and I wasn't even thinking about her or anything else for that matter. I had left home to go to a friend's house where we would play some games and was absent-mindedly walking to the bus stop when I saw her coming from the opposite direction, alone this time, with lots of grocery bags in her hands. She didn't see me at first, as she was fumbling though her purse apparently looking for her key, and it was only when she turned towards her building entrance that she sensed someone coming on the street. The surprise of seeing me was so big that one of the bags fell from her hands, the oranges and other fruits she was carrying rolling through the floor and giving me the perfect excuse to talk to her.
I immediately started to pick the fruits from the ground and put back inside the empty bag while she just stood there, looking as she didn't know what to do and clearly uncomfortable with my presence. I, too, was so nervous that I was probably red as an apple myself, but I did my best to control myself when I got closer to her and said:
"Hello! Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
She didn't reply and looked even more nervous than I was, what made me a little bolder:
"Look, you have too much to carry and I believe this building doesn't have a lift, right? Let me help you carry these up..."
Without waiting for an answer, I took a few more bags from her hands. She looked around, obviously worried that someone could see us, and finally said:
"No, you... I can carry them myself..."
"No way, no reason to do that! We are practically neighbors, it's my duty to help!"
For a moment, I really thought she was going to just take everything back from my hands and go, judging by how nervous and worried she was. But, as I embraced the bags and looked like I wasn't going to give up easily, she probably thought it would be riskier to stay as we were, on the street arguing, than just allowing me to take her bags and go.
After looking around once more, she finally opened the gate and let me in, entering in a hurry right after me and going straight to the stairs. I followed her through the two flights of stairs until her apartment, number 302, and when she opened the door I didn't wait and just entered the kitchen without asking. I was so excited that I didn't even think about what could happen if her husband was at home which, fortunately, he wasn't.
As soon as I put the bags over the kitchen table, she said:
"Thank you. Now, please go..."
"Why?"
"W... Why? What do you mean why?"
I took a deep breath and, risking everything, said:
"Look... I know you know me. And I know that you... Well, that you are happy that I think you're beautiful."
She blushed, looking down, but said:
"I don't know what you're talking about..."
"What's your name?"
