Tatiana had lived in the United States for only eight years when her husband and sponsor died of a massive heart attack on New Year's Eve, 2004. A mail order bride from Russia, she was already 45 years old when she crossed the Big Puddle to start her new life in America. She arrived with little money, poor English, and great expectations. She was an eclectic personality. In winter she was the epitome of the classic Russian snow bunny, all bundled up sexy-like in her babushka boots, heavy black wool coat, mink scarf, and black gloves, her golden blonde curly locks tossed by the bitter wind. But spring and summertime were when her exhibitionist side took over with her tending garden and doing yard work in seriously short and tight Daisy Dukes and colorful tank tops and sports bras. She seemed unconcerned with the fact that the rest of her neighbors were considerably more conservative in their dress. I couldn't decide if she was shameless or culturally clueless.
I'd occasionally found myself watching her with interest from my living room window, seeing her trying to dig in the garden wearing skin-tight leather pants or mow the lawn in pumps and wondered, "What is this ditzy woman thinking? Doesn't she own a pair of gym shoes?"
Her husband had died the year I had moved in across the street. Since then, she'd assumed the mantle of head of household and caretaker to a seriously scraggly dog with an arthritic hip that she let hobble around her front yard trying to piss on every flower until it finally went to that big canine hotel in the sky. Recognizing she was a widow, and a foreigner, I extended my hospitality and generosity to her almost immediately, insisting that she ask me for help with projects around the house that were too much for her to handle. A proud, hard-working Russian, she assured me she could handle it. Eventually, she came around and I began spending time at her house digging out flower beds for her or helping her move furniture inside the house. Fixing a leaky faucet, replacing a broken window pane, and attaching new shudders to the front windows were just a few of the odd jobs I did for her, uncompensated at my insistence.
She was certainly an attractive woman, and I had no doubt she had looked bombshell gorgeous in her twenties with her beautiful blonde hair, cool blue eyes, flawless complexion, and trim figure. She had a warm smile and tried hard to be gracious and appreciative, but her language skills often presented problems for her. Whenever I could, I tried to help her with her English, and I'd seen some improvement. She had strong, toned legs and somewhat wide hips, but a firm, full butt that screamed for mercy in those jean shorts she usually wore in the garden. Her only drawback was a flat chest, but that was a minor deficiency considering her other admiral attributes.
Now 52 and still a hard working woman, I realized that this lady had a promiscuous streak in her when I would notice her wearing a hot pink lace bra beneath a white shirt or she would kneel down and I'd catch a glimpse of the top edge of a pink lace G-string peeking up from her waistband in back. That she didn't, in fact, own a pair of gym shoes and that most of the things in her wardrobe were fashionable told me she was concerned with her looks and liked to look good in front of other people.
I found myself in her living room on a spring Friday after work, as I'd promised to stop by and put the finishing touches of some molding around the baseboards in her living room. Not having a miter saw, she couldn't make the cuts clean enough by hand and had asked me to help. Sure thing; anything to get another good look at that rear end.
As I completed the quick job and took a seat in the kitchen, she walked in from upstairs wearing those jean shorts and a white T-shirt. A blue sports bra was visible underneath. My eyes were riveted to the shorts as I watched her walk by, those beautiful cheeks swaying back and forth, stretching the denim, those dangling strands of fabric no doubt tickling her legs as she moved....
"What?" She'd caught me staring.
I averted my eyes and shook my head. "Oh, nothing."
She grinned a little and glanced over her shoulder. She swung her hips toward me. "You like?"
"You're an attractive woman, yes." It certainly didn't hurt to toss out a compliment.
"Hmmmm," she purred, and moved on into the kitchen. "I am old and not as pretty as I used to be," she said, pouting.
I watched her at the counter with her back to me as she pulled silverware out of the dishwasher and quietly put it away in a drawer. "You're very pretty, Tatiana. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."
