I saw her again on a rainy afternoon, when my mother called me to visit her house after many years of separation. She walked in with a tight-fitting dress in wine red, her white skin stood out under the pale yellow light in the living room. The familiar smile was still there, but the gaze was completely different—deeper, and full of fascination.
She sat down on the sofa, crossed her long legs, and leaned slightly towards my mother to talk. Every little movement made my heart skip a beat, sometimes I had to sneak a glance at the cleavage peeking out under the skirt – full, soft and inviting.
"You're too old," she smiled softly as she turned to me, her voice as gentle but charming as honey pouring into her ears. "When I was a child, I used to hold my pipe, now I probably can't hold it anymore."