But her breasts were full. Though not large enough, they filled the whole of her blouse and I could see them bulging out of her blouse most of the time, when she was bending or stretching her body.“Could you please lift me up, so that I can take that rice flour from that vessel in the upper shelf?” she asked.Damn! I said to myself. Actually I was shocked, because, in our Indian community, they would even allow us to touch a lady, and here she was, this woman asking me to lift her up.”Come on… Hold my hips… Can you withstand my weight?” she asked me.“How much do you weigh? I asked her smiling.”Not more than 50 kg…” she returned the smile.”O.K. Here we go…” saying so I got hold of her sari covered thighs and lifted her up. ‘God!’ I whispered to myself. More than her weight, the pleasant musky scent of a woman made my hands trembling.Suddenly my hand slipped from her thighs, but I recovered myself, before she could fall; only this time, my palms went over her hips and touched something. ‘All right. I’ll see you both here in an hour.’ Edna Mayfield gently replaced the handset in it’s cradle, then turned towards the door that led to the backyard — and to the sanctuary that was her trellised garden. She walked to the center of her secret space, to a sundial atop a short, geometric column. Stanton Mayfield’s ashes lay undisturbed under the base of the column, a brass plaque with an inscription was set in stone on the ground just above the buried urn. She stood for a moment in embattled silence, not sure what to say — or to do. ‘A spy,’ she said to herself. She felt the blood flow out of her face, felt herself growing cold and pale as memories of his time there came flooding back. ‘Oh-please-my-God-in-Heaven — not another goddamned spy…’ Edna Mayfield sank to her knees for the second time that August morning, and hung onto the stark, bronze column in sheer, breathless loneliness. An impossible wailing cry soon shook the comfortable, impractical air of her garden. She.
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