The Conch Shell

That’s what she'd drawn on her paper. I’d asked everyone in class to write an autobiography of 250 words, and she drew a conch shell. I told her to talk to me about it after class. She smiled and said, “Of course, Mr. Smith. Then you’ll know me, and you’ll want to know more.”

I did want to know more, I confess. Olga was one of the most beautiful females I’d ever set eyes on, and certainly the most elegant student I’d met since I’d begun teaching in the community education program. It was a simple matter of pedigree, one might guess, the genetic magic of a handsome professional baseball-playing Japanese father and a Russian model mother.

Like both parents, Olga was tall and thin, with a long face, high cheek bones, dark, almond eyes, long lashes, arched brows, all framed by reddish-brown hair.

“Didn’t you understand the assignment?” I asked. She fluttered her lashes. “Perfectly,” she said. “And I let my imagination carry me. This is me, how to say… unclothed.”

“Can we meet for coffee?” I asked.

“How about dinner?” she responded. “I’ll prepare ratatouille, and bake a loaf of bread. Can you bring a bottle or two of wine?”

We exchanged cellphone numbers and set a date and time. I showed up early, discovering quickly that Olga was a long lost soulmate. Like me, she loved cooking and baking, did ikebana and was seriously into fashion. She also had a great collection of disco music on vinyls. It was noon the next day when I arrived back home.

Alberto, my boyfriend, was pleased that I’d found someone else to share time with.