Standing up, Ramita reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Do not worry, Christine. I am sure Naija will know what to do. I will come see you later this evening. Everything will be alright.”
I am still dumbfounded, but just hearing my good friend speak those words gives me comfort. I watch her walk away and I gather up my things and walk home. As I step into the house, I can smell the aroma of a casserole. Following the smell, I see that the dining room table is set for two. In the kitchen, I find Jeff busy washing dishes.
“Mother! I wanted to surprise you!” he says, bounding over to hug me. He tells me his Dad has gone to the next village over to lead a prayer group meeting this evening and won’t be back till late, so he decided to make me dinner as a surprise.
“Well, I guess you did, honey!” I reply. I shiver a little as my son wraps his strong arms around me and pulls me to him. I feel my breasts pillow out against his bare chest and I imagine I am blushing as I feel my thick nipples harden, the long bumps pressing against my bra and blouse, aching to touch male skin. For a moment I struggle with the urge to press my lips against his as my vagina begins to burn with lust. I control myself and peck him on the check, content for the moment of just being in a handsome young man’s embrace.
Jeff helps me with my bags and tells me of his day. I sit at the table and listen to my son ramble on about things, especially about his and Bimal’s plans for starting a farm. As he talks, I can’t help but admire his young body. He is tall and well muscled and beautiful and again I can’t help but compare his body to that of my dream lover. My panties become sodden and I am appalled to find myself unconsciously dropping my hands into my lap to rub against my slacks.
Jeff and I eat and then he is off to run about with Bimal, no doubt to flirt with the many pretty young girls of our village. I sit on the living room and try and read scripture, seeking comfort in God’s words, but not finding them tonight. I pray for help and deliverance for my evil thoughts. I am on my knees when there is a knock at the front door and I hear Ramita call out, “Christine, are you here. May we visit please, with you?”
I struggle to my feet and at the door am surprised to see Ramita and the old holy woman with her. In all the years, we have been here, Naija has never visited us. “Please come in,” I say. The woman has the history of countless decades etched on her face. Her eyes are a brilliant green and as she enters she studies me with an uncomfortable intensity.
Inside, we all sit and there is an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Ramita begins, “I have spoken to Naija about your dreams and how I cannot imagine how this has happened. This thing that is happening, should not be happening to you, it is…”
Naija holds up a hand for silence and in a raspy, ancient voice, says, “Hush, daughter. You are smart and educated in the matters of the world, but of the province of the divine, you should not speak.” Naija stands up and shuffles over to me. She holds out her hands and I give her mine. Her grip is incredibly firm for someone so old.