I am at the wheel of my rusted, two-decades old Chevy pickup. We have pulled off the road since we're in sort of a rain white-out, a blinding storm with whipping winds that are beginning to rock the truck itself.
I shouldn't be surprised. Storms like this, coming in from the Atlantic, are not infrequent on Hatteras, part of the Outer Banks island chain along the North Carolina coast.
It is just after Labor Day. Summer tourists have departed and fall fishing has yet to begin. Which means the two-lane road running the length of the island is pretty much deserted -- except for us.
Me and Mrs. Anna Ainsworth. We've pulled into a parking lot. She's sitting on the passenger side by the door. I turn off the wipers and cut the engine. The rain is so hard we can no longer see out the windshield -- our world reduced to the door-to-door bench seat we are sitting on in the cab.
The otherwise deserted little parking lot -- only about 10 spaces -- is one of several up and down the island, meant for beachgoers. You park, take a wooden walkway up and over a sand ridge filled with waist-high sea oats, then you're in front of an endless beach -- and the deep blue sea.
And nothing nearby. No houses, stores, no civilization at all for another few miles ahead of and behind us. Mostly just sand and the road. We are alone. And we will have to wait it out in the truck.
"I'm sorry I dragged you out here, Benjamin," she says. "How long do these storms last?"
Not to worry, I tell her. We may see blue sky in 30 minutes. Though sometimes storms hover all afternoon and late into the night. I'm not going to bring that up.
That I'm frustrated is an understatement. If I'm going to be stranded, couldn't it be with a 19-year-old with flimsy shorts and eye-catching breasts? Maybe platinum blonde hair? I'm 18 and would relish that kind of company. Actually, just about any girl my age would do. I'm pretty desperate. Luck has not come my way much with dating.
And I'm having no luck this day, either. Mrs. Ainsworth has to be in her early 50s, though she in no way resembles my plumpish mother. Tall and slender, loose khaki shorts, black t-shirt and an old, worn baseball cap. Her hair, not quite shoulder-length, is an unusually bright gray that glistens in the sunlight. It is heavily wind-blown from our traipsing around. Quite striking, actually. Surprising to see that in a woman as old as her.
"So, I guess we just wait? Is that it?" she asks. She opens the glove box in front of her, just exploring. Finds a deck of cards. Pulls it out.
"Well, we could play a game. You up for strip poker?" she asks with an innocent smile.
I'm startled by that. She's middle-aged for God's sake. And I've known her for only two days.
"I guess not," she says, putting the cards back, looking away now and out the side door window at the rain.
"I can understand, Benjamin. Especially after seeing me naked this morning," she says, looking back at me.
Thankfully, she's still smiling, though this time not so innocently.
I was hoping we'd never have to have this conversation. She had not mentioned it all day. But here we were. So I begin my apologies.
"I'm sorry about this morning, Mrs. Ainsworth. I'm not perverted. I'm no peeping tom. It was an accident. I know I should have turned around and walked away."
"But you didn't."
She was right about that. I didn't.
* * *
Of course, you need to know the back story. My folks own a four-unit apartment building on Hatteras, fronting the beach. Simple, two-bedroom apartments for vacationers, each with a deck overlooking the ocean. Two upstairs units, two down. Nothing fancy. Now that the season is over, I've come down from college for a three-day weekend. I'm staying in one of the upstairs apartments to do some painting on the building. Mrs. Ainsworth showed up two days ago, renting the other upstairs unit. No one else is here. Just us.
She spent the first day driving herself around the island. When she pulled her car back into the apartments' driveway, I was cooking freshly caught flounder and deep-frying hush puppies. We chatted. I invited her to eat. She helped with the cooking. We drank cold beer on a warm night. Talked.
This morning, sunrise and low tide were both just before 7 a.m. For some reason, I woke up, couldn't go back to sleep. Grabbed my shorts, a cup of coffee and headed barefoot out on the wooden deck. No one was on the beach. Mrs. Ainsworth wasn't up either.
So I'm trying to explain this now to her, but I know she thinks the worst of me.
"You see, I just walked over to the railing to look over at your front door to see if you were up," I say. "The door and window were open. I had no idea you were sleeping on the sofa in the living room."
"It's okay, Benjamin," she says, a little gloom now on her face. "I'm quite sure young guys don't get their kinks looking at someone naked who's as old as their mother. Age spots aren't exactly erotic."
"I didn't see any age spots," I say, trying to repair the damage.
"That's because you saw my good side," she says, giving me a quiet laugh, but now a little forced. She's being polite, trying to make light of me having seen her nude. It makes me like her. She's letting me keep some dignity.
She had been lying face down on the sofa. Early morning sunlight filtering through the window and screen door. Her back was long and smooth, freckles across her shoulders, her back bone very pronounced all the way down. Slight rib indentions. Middle-aged or not, I have to admit my blood rose when my eyes moved down to her buttocks. No bubble butt like young girls on campus. Hers was slightly longish with a perfectly sculpted curve. The cleavage between them dark, forbidden. Her legs, crossed at her ankles, were long, slender, graceful.
I could see her hips moving slowly up and down, ever so slightly, lifting only an inch or so off the sofa, in a rhythm. Her right arm was down by her side, her hand up under her, right at her sex. She was masturbating.
"Anyway, I'm sorry," I say as we are sitting two feet apart in the truck. "I embarrassed you and myself. I wish it had never happened."
"Oh, so I wasn't even worth looking at?" Mrs. Ainsworth asks, teasingly.
"Now you're toying with me," I say, feeling my face turn warm. I'm guessing it's also bright red.
I wondered if she was also toying with me this morning when I saw her naked. After I had looked at her a few seconds, her eyes opened. She turned her head back slightly and saw me. Said nothing. Did nothing. No expression. Made no attempt to cover herself, even as I finally backed away, retreating to my apartment.