The buzz of ginger

?Damn this narrow road,? Jaz thought as he hit the brakes on his rackety old Terios. He always seemed to meet somebody at this corner, and with one side a virtual cliff, both had to stop and silently negotiate who was going to back up or pull over. The area was the back of beyond on this little Caribbean island.That doesn?t mean it was a charming little sandy track; it was a proper road topped with asphalt or, to his British way of thinking, tarmac. But roads have to be maintained and the authorities had neither the nous nor the inclination to do anything about decaying infrastructure until it was actually dangerous. Or perhaps they were just reluctant, because any year a hurricane could barge in and destroy everything anyway.Today?s obstacle was that old silver Suzuki Ignis, an ugly little thing driven by a woman whose identity he didn?t know but who seemed attractive enough in a middle-aged way. There was just enough room to squeeze past if he took it slowly and she didn?t move, so he crept forward as his nearside wheels squeaked against the kerb and the unkempt grasses and weeds brushed his paintwork. Pulling alongside the Ignis, he lowered the window and looked at the woman. She lowered hers slightly nervously, wondering what he wanted.What he wanted was to look at her. They were both foreigners, both living at this Caribbean branch of the end of the world and, he thought, she was probably as directionless as he was. The absent windows revealed a mop of dull, greying ginger hair and a long face awash with freckles. Her g reen eyes had untidy mottled whites and the remains of some gunk on the lashes, as if she had made herself up a week ago and just waited for Bostancı Escort it all to wear off naturally.She looked at him quizzically.?All right?? she asked, her eyes roaming his face and chest.?Terrible road, isn?t it?? he replied and then eased past and drove off up the hill. She was going home at 9:30 in the morning and she was often driving around at odd times, so she couldn?t have a normal nine-to-five job.Strange guy, she thought as she turned into the scruffy driveway of her once-proud home, now dilapidated and sad, like her. He was always up and down that hill with no apparent purpose, just driving for something to do.= = = = =They thought of each other on and off all day as they went about their mutually unimportant business, he teaching English and she doing a bit of painting and preparing for an art student the next day.Five o?clock saw them both set off, a minute apart, for the supermarket to get something for dinner. Jaz had decided some vegetables were in order after several days of junk. He was just climbing out of the car when she pulled in next to him, so he waited and they went in together. Grabbing baskets, they hovered uncomfortably in front of the bananas and plantains, displayed confusingly adjacent, and a mumbled conversation began.Her name was Zelma, with the z pronounced as an s, in the Dutch manner.?It means helmet of God,? she explained in a Dutch accent. ?I don?t know why I tell people this, I don?t know if there is a god, and if there is, I?m sure he doesn?t wear a helmet."She was strikingly, almost shockingly tall.?I know,? she said, guessing his thoughts. ?I?m very Dutch. Very tall.?She was clearly Bostancı Escort Bayan self-conscious about it, but what she didn?t know was that Jaz had quickly marked that in the not ideal column and moved on to quite pretty in a tired way and nice breasts hanging off that freckled chest.They managed a bit of chit-chat about how they came to be there, on that particular blob in the sea. She and her husband had sailed there and just stayed, as many Europeans had, but he was now dead. She was an artist. As they spoke they roamed the aisles, and when they reached the wines, Jaz said:?Red or white???One of each,? she replied, grabbing a suspiciously cheap Chianti and a Pinot Grigio as if she knew exactly where they were and could have done it blindfolded. Jaz took exactly the same plus a bottle of St Lucia spiced rum, a pleasant alternative to the disgracefully expensive cognac he would have preferred.?How about pooling our resources?? he suggested, suddenly grateful that many Dutch people had an excellent command of English. ?You doing anything this evening???What a nice idea,? Zelma said.After much humming and hahing they agreed to meet at Zelma?s house, where she had three dogs. Security, he thought. She couldn?t allow herself to be sucked into a strange man?s world so quickly, so her territory and protective animals constituted a good idea. And that was fine with him; there was nothing as sexy as a woman?s home, provided the dogs didn?t try to muscle in on the action, should there be any.He wasn?t taking anything for granted, he told himself. It would just be a man and a woman in a house, getting along together quite Escort Bostancı well and seeing what came up. All the same, he chose his clothes carefully, showered and washed his hair even though he didn?t normally do that in the evening, and gave himself a few sprays of the cologne he kept for special occasions. Such was the dearth of such occasions that the black Bleu de Chanel bottle was dusty.Two hundred yards away around the corner, Zelma?s tasks were threefold: tidy the house to a decent extent, get the pasta sauce going ? she had bought mince and a tin of tomatoes plus some spaghetti ? and make herself look less like a freak. Growing up in Eindhoven it hadn?t been a problem: yes, she was tall, but so was everyone. It was a national trait. It was only when she traveled to other countries that she found herself towering over people, and it was particularly embarrassing with men, especially those she wanted to find her attractive. Then she had met Kees, who was positively gigantic by British or French standards, while the little stocky Spaniards would have fitted in her pocket.This Jaz was probably as tall as Brad Pitt or Roger Federer, she didn?t know, and you could imagine yourself in a clinch with them. Female tallness was an issue long overdue addressing in the public forum. We?d had race and creed and even fat-shaming, so why should she feel uncomfortable just because she was ? what was that English word? ? lanky.All the same, she went for flat shoes and even kept her hair flattish on top. But if he was man enough he wouldn?t care anyway. He would deal with it.=====?They?re all the same lying down? was a useful, if churlish, expression from Jaz?s youth, when you could say such things among your friends and not be pilloried for it. And he and Zelma weren?t even going out. They weren?t going to be subject to public scrutiny. ?Look at that shrimp with the Dutch willow. He?ll have to get a stepladder to kiss her. And he won?t even have to stoop to suck her nipples.?