Long Vo-Phuoc
Writer. Retired Fund Manager.
Articles & Works of Fiction. © All rights reserved.
Sophie
A risque novel
Long Vo-Phuoc © All rights reserved
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Risque Conversation at Lunch
(The Present)
Old friends catch up for lunch at a nice restaurant in a quiet suburb. Modern Australian cuisine, East and West influenced (not an easy combination but the place tries). Corner table. Two very good-looking women, forty-three both. Not simply beautiful but also sexy and alluring. Possessing, too, the finest of minds.
- Somehow we have never done this before, even though Stef is close to you as I have been to her.
- I always think lunch with you would be nice but tricky.
- Risqué?
- That, if you like. We can do more of this once Stef’s back from France.
- Funny that she still works overseas. I would have thought that would be you.
- I thought about it for Cambridge, but decided to bring Brian up in Sydney.
- Understand. But you are the one who can do anything, anywhere, anytime, now or in future. Apart of your physical appeal, very basic of me I know, that’s another thing that makes me love you.
- Love?
- Of course it’s love, don’t you know?
- You love Michael, more like it.
- I love Michael and I love you. Exactly like Stef does.
- Oh dear, this becomes a tricky conversation.
- Doesn’t it Sophie dear. But you should know, everyone loves you, Myrtle especially. How is she?
- Caught up with her a few weeks ago, she is wonderful. She said hi to all the friends in Sydney.
- Mentioned me?
- Yes.
- Maybe I should go to Tokyo to visit her.
- Happy to give you phone and email.
- But only if I go with you
- Ah.
- Is she still madly in love with you?
- I believe so, but I’ll have no further comment on the subject.
- If the extremely delightful Sophie pronounces that who am I to argue?
- Quite so, let’s talk about you.
- I’m publishing a poetry collection, the first since Michael passed away.
- You still miss him that much?
- Certainly not as much as you do but probably as much as Stef, or only a little behind.
- We all miss him.
- That’s why I dedicate my new book to all of us, Michael, you, Stef and myself – to when we were twenty.
- When we thought we would live forever as we did until reality intervened. For the records I miss David too, but of course David was connected only with Michael and me.
- That’s true, but I always feel for you darling, for your losses.
- Thank you Bec.
- You know Sophie … you know … one of my two greatest wishes since a teenager was …
- Was what, pray?
- Was, and is, squashing my boobs on yours.
- … Good heavens Rebecca, I … don’t know what to say …
- That’s my declaration of love, today above all else because you wear this sleeveless black silk blouse like no one in the world can …
- Black or white blouse I am speechless …
- Since I always have thick skin, I could only suggest that we start by you letting me peel the shirt away, but you are Sophie, that could never work …
- You are a hardened poetess as you can be … but your lines do have melodies, feels …
- Your saying things like that no wonder I love you, turns me on dizzily with love, physical and spiritual and all …
- Maybe the four of us can have a reunion
- You mean Myrtle and Stef and us
- Yes
- That’s a wonderful thought, Myrtle was hard on me in the past, but I always like her
- Myrtle is a poet like you, she has her nuances
- Wonderful, where?
- Tokyo, or maybe Berlin, picnic on the royal Sanssouci ...
- Where we can all frolic about without clothes on, like that midsummer night of my old friend Will
- The absurd Rebecca still has plenty of charm, no wonder Michael loved you in his own fashion
- In addition to one or two really delectable ladies, but never mind, autumn or winter for the romp?
- Let’s all die properly, so it must be autumn.
- Darling Sophie, you know this salad now suddenly becomes tasteless, the Bollinger turns vinegar, let’s go back to your place and let me peel your shirt your trouser away so I can eat you up well and proper.
- Don’t be outrageous, all good things take time.
- Oh Sophie, is that a promise to this humble wordsmith?
- Just an old saying from this humble mathematician to a dear outlandish friend.
Long Vo-Phuoc - April 2026
(from the novel "Sophie")
Encounter With The Vamp
(The Past)
Michael has been in Sydney Uni for two months in May. He enjoys the scholarly scenery and the surrounds, his campus room, new friends – boys and girls. Some of the girls are quite attractive, and one or two say they like to know him better. But he takes things slowly, and Stephanie visits him from Macquarie every week or two, sandwiching with him going there, so those girls take thing easy as well. The atmosphere is one of relaxed feelings, everyone seventeen eighteen, give or take.
One day someone calls from behind. He turns, and it is Rebecca.
He has known that Rebecca is at the same place as he, doing Art even though she could have had a go at many others including the technical courses. They exchanged info at the School Ball – he remembers that she was one of the stars there, the boys umhed and ahed about her (Stef a star too!). And Stef always encourages him to keep in touch with her. But somehow he hasn’t, for many reasons. Not because Rebecca was not to his liking, far from it. She is a little feisty, quite forward, artistic, relaxed, taking things lightly, and generous. Everything that he likes. And yet there is a reason to counter all that.
And now she called him from a metre or two behind. She is smiling broadly, eyes sparkling. Her hands folded on her chest, watching him. Waiting for him. Small stylish backpack at back.
She teases:
-
Hello stranger – or rather hello MIA
-
Hello Rebecca, great to see you.
He comes over. She proffers her cheek, He pecks her. And she turns and pecks him back, making a smack sound. Then she hugs him, laughing:
-
You’ve been avoiding me, despite my SMS last month
-
I did reply ...
-
Yeah ... saying you’re tied up and to come back to me, but didn’t
-
Ah sorry Rebecca, so sorry
-
How many classes you have right now, two or three?
This is a challenge. He was thinking of an excuse but she’s pre-empted it. What can he do?
-
Oh nothing at the moment
-
Nothing for a few minutes?
-
Free from now on today Rebecca.
It is three o’clock. She slaps playfully on his cheek, said I don’t have money for a cuppa or a beer, you buy me one?
-
Sure sure, let’s go to the union café.
-
Ah that’s my friend Michael, generous to a poor girl as always.
And with that, she pulls his hand along to the place only twenty metres away. He laughs, walks along her. Near the café entrance she puts her arm around his waist, says, just like old friends, Stef would approve. He laughs - what can he do?
They ordered the coffee at the counter. He paid with cash then they went to their table to wait for the coffee. She picks a table near the glass wall overlooking the pool. A boy walks by, says hello Rebecca. She waves, but pays no further attention. Guys look at her. Of course.
-
How’s your new life here, Rebecca asks.
-
Fun! Lots of new friends, study is good, I really like …
-
Maths?
-
(laughs) maths and physics but I read too
-
Interesting … what?
-
A translation of Garcia Marquez
-
Ah, the Columbian guy, interesting … bought it recently?
-
Borrowed from my sister.
-
Ah Madame Marie Curie, madame very very beautiful Curie, how is the most beautiful girl in the world?
-
(his heart aches a little) She is fine in NSW, doing well, one day she’ll do research I think
-
She can do anything she likes, that girl, and your Madame Sweetheart?
-
As well as your Mr Darling.
-
(laughing happily) I wish he is such a darling but he’s well, working and studying well. That boy likes to make money in a hurry.
Ralph is working as an accounting clerk at Price Waterhouse, studying parttime for business and accountancy.
-
But this coffee break is about you Rebecca. How is your Lit course …
-
Ah, kind that you ask, people just don’t study art any more unless they are losers and lazy
-
You’re not either.
-
What, you remember from all of three months ago, you are such an MIA!
With that she stretches her arm out, patting him on the cheek. The movement strains her loose blouse a little, but that is enough to show clearly her very full very firm breasts under the fine thin white cotton - the bra must be bare on top, because the white flesh shows beneath the cotton. The effect was electric, and Michael forces himself to move his eyes back to her face. It was only a quick glance, yet she must have noticed. He didn’t mean to look, but the shift of view was sudden and arresting.
-
Ah … I’m sorry Rebecca
-
Nothing to worry, and don’t be embarrassed out of a sudden. It’s only me, a simple friend for such a long time
-
Yes, well, here we are catching up again, how is your course again?
-
Ah rude of me not to reply sooner. Well, typical first year, old fashioned English lit, just like Year 12 and 11 again, more long-winded though. But another subject is drama, Shakespeare with maybe some practical in acting.
-
Exciting …
-
Isn’t it, hmmm. Also having German lit 18th century, Goethe and all, in English naturally. And East Asia – very general China, Japan, Korea, Vietnam
-
That’s more to your liking?
-
Yes, the Germans and the Asians.
-
Do you write too?
Her eyes sparkle, looking at him intently.
-
Rarely anyone asks me that, maybe one or two of my girl classmates. And yes, I do. But first, do you still write poetry?
-
Well now and again …
-
For whom?
-
Well … for no one (his heart aches again, because he writes poems only for one person)
-
About what and whom …
-
Well nothing particular … fairy tales and goddesses may be (aching heart!)
-
You’re both lying and telling truths.
Michael smiles, says nothing. Suddenly he feels more relaxed, and less wary of Rebecca.
-
And what do you write?
-
A novel about a medieval time in Asia
-
Why? An unusual choice.
-
Because I read about Champa history, part of the Asia course, and fascinated with an episode in the country’s history.
-
Would be fun to read it.
-
You’ll be one of the first, maybe the first
Suddenly he becomes wary again.
-
I see
-
And I’m also writing a sex story
-
What, sex story?
-
Yes … why are you surprised?
-
It’s such a … a change of event … a change in the train of thoughts.
-
It might reflect real life more than you would normally think. You might enjoy it one day
-
One day?
-
One day, sure. And why you look so wary of me again?
-
Do I … why … I’m not wary of you. I always think well of you.
-
True, but you’re always wary of me
-
Why?
She smiles, and he knows he’s in trouble, he’s falling into a trap set by his single utterance, “Why”.
She smiles, and he knows he’s in trouble, he’s falling into a trap set by his single utterance, “Why”.
-
Let me tell you why you’re wary of me. In a nutshell, because you think I might eat you up. One bite from me and you’re gone.
-
Rebecca …
-
Isn’t it so, for six years in High School, and since we’re at the Primary. You and I, we’ve known each other longer than any other friend around us.
-
…
-
We always like each other, maybe more so from me than from you.
-
Rebecca, let’s not worry …
-
Well since you’re here with me, let me finish that, I’ll be quick, OK.
-
Sure …
-
We’re friend, but I grew up as a girl faster than you as a boy. You’re reserved, like Madame Lovely Sophie your sister. I’m forward, you’re not ready so when Ralph and I became close three four years ago you became detached, and more since Stef and you became an item, but you always, always …
-
Rebecca …
-
Always think I might bite you if you’re not careful, and you don’t know what to do about that thought.
Silence. She looks at him keenly, her smile a little challenging, mostly teasing. He knows he’s in trouble, and the more he struggles the more he would fall deeper into the trap.
Then she continues:
-
The obvious thing for anyone but you, looking at this, is this, what do I think of your thoughts?
Michael closes his eyes. This confrontation, if anyone calls it that, is becoming complete, and he shall be on the losing side. He is becoming very dead.
-
You do look cute when you’re in trouble and have to close your eyes. But back to this, do you know since when that I’m more curious about how to reply to your thoughts?
-
No Rebecca, but you don’t have to worry …
-
Well I do, worry about the answer to that question I mean. I’m more curious since Stef told me things. I’m her closest girl friend at school since she came to our school a few years back …
-
I know Rebecca but …
-
And she told me not so long ago that (lowering her voice a little) you’re such a powerhouse in bed.
He looks at her, speechless. His defeat is complete. She continues:
-
You can shake her up even by a tiniest touch.
-
…
-
You last forever and you’re so huge!
She laughs quietly, eyes sparkle. He remembers such sparkling eyes from Stef and, his heart aches like crazy, from Sophie. He looks at her, helpless.
-
Incredible. She said you were a newbie in your words yet you’re so innovative so considerate. Wow …
-
…
-
And she wasn’t a snitch on you at all, never Stef. She said she was going to tell you what she and I talked about
-
… Really Rebecca … really … we shouldn’t talk like this.
She smiles at him, and he knows he’s at her mercy.
-
You know Michael, you know if you think I’m a vamp to you, then a vamp I am to you.
He’s dead. Very dead.
She is still smiling. Then she reaches over, squeezing his hand on the table. Her hand is warm, dry, soft. She is amazingly attractive, even her hands are, even if people always readily notice other parts of her.
She takes her hand back, slowly.
-
I’m not such a vamp Michael, maybe except to you. I happened to have sex with only one boy before Ralph, a rather nasty boy. And I’m with Ralph for quite a while.
-
… I … That’s not for me to know Rebecca.
-
But a vamp to you yes, since long ago, you forever MIA
-
I’m not Missing in Action to you.
-
Of course you are. And now you think you’re even more justified being so.
-
… I … I don’t know what to say. We do different things, but you’re always a good friend of mine, of Stef.
She looks at him even more intensely, breathes in slow and deep, as if making a decision in her mind, then says, in a low careful but deliberate voice:
-
You know Michael if you and I don’t have sex then there is no guilt on your part or mine, no guilt to Stef or Ralph or to anyone, we just don’t have sex unless we ever both insist it, OK?
He doesn’t know what she gets up to with this turn of talk, he’s not sure that he would trust her to be simple. He says, hesitantly:
-
Of course Becky, that we won’t do, even as you’re immensely attractive.
-
Ah you’re such a polite gentleman, never hurt a girl’s offering, and well what is sex anyway?
She asked not in a rhetorical way, she asked that seriously the way she looks at him (or pretends, in her fashion?). He hesitates:
-
Well … what about sex?
-
I define sex in the most basic form, never mind this modern age, never mind that I’m a bit of a feminist like all women should be. Sex is, in this friendly discussion between two old friends, (very low voice now) sex is penetrative intercourse with the boy ends up ejaculating into the girl’s womb.
He realises he’s dead again, deeply dead. He is deep in the abyss.
-
Rebecca …
-
So if we have sex with each other, which we don’t unless we both want to et cetera, you would come in my womb. If you don’t do that then we don’t have sex at all, no guilt to anyone, fair enough?
-
…. (speechless speechless)
-
(very low voice again, eyes very sparkling, reminding him so much of a god, a goddess) So even if you move in and out of me, long and short, repeatedly, slowly but fast if you like, however that happens, if you pull out before you come, then that’s not sex. Not sex at all. Everybody is innocent.
She smiles deliciously (always delicious-looking!), devilishly, incredibly sexy. He looks at her for seconds. Then closes his eyes. Shakes his head. A total surrender.
She says, gently:
-
It’s getting dark. Would you like to go to my flat and I make a simple meal for you? Quick and simple. You’ve never been there, and I’ve been waiting to do that for quite a while.
-
… Sure Becky, sure … can I buy anything with you in the supermarket first?
-
… No Michael everything is there. Let’s go. I can’t wait to make a meal for you.
Smiling very mischievously. And beautifully. Her white even teeth show, her narrow refined nose, her high cheek bones, her high neck, her very provocative breasts under the bunched-up cotton of the blouse.
She’s always beautiful since early High School. By the time she was sixteen seventeen everything about her was magnificent, and has stayed that way. A classic beauty, a little above average height, slender but well-proportioned in her shoulders, arms legs, hips, behind. Barring Sophie (no one in the world would come close to Sophie) she’s the best looking young woman at school, in the wider suburbs, and one of the most at the uni, from what he could see. And very learned in the literary sense, incredibly artistic.
Outside the Union café, she pulls him to her, says with both her mouth and her eyes, I’m thrilled, are you? He replied, immediately, yes I am.
.......
Long Vo-Phuoc - 2023-26
(from the novel "Sophie")
© Long Vo-Phuoc 2026
Park, Winter
(The Past)
1
Their flight is at 9:45 at night, a Tuesday, February. ANA. They want to arrive early in the morning for a million things, train passes, subway passes, money exchange, finding the monorail, and so on. They want to smell the cold air outside early. They hope to get out of the crazy (so everyone says) Shinjuku station labyrinth by seven-thirty, better still seven, hopefully beating the commuter traffic, the rush, so the cold air can kiss their faces. The streets would then be crowded soon, too, but you can’t have everything.
This is the first time they go to Japan without the parents – once before, when they were eight and ten, well, eight and a half and the older just turning ten. It’s is now ten years later. He has just finished his first year at the uni, she her third - she learns things quicker than everyone else, himself included. Both attend their respective courses younger than classmates.
They travel business class because the parents insisted, worried for the youngsters’ welfare. She finally yielded to them, but said in future it would be economy on her own (his own too for that matter, if he so wishes), and the parents smiled, said OK, relieved. The siblings always say to themselves, to each other, that they understand the relativism between things. Their knowledge of the world reminds them so, always. Being who they are, sometimes it can make one feel detached from the average reality. But they try to be always firmly footed in the reality of the world they live in. Conscious of both keeping it that way and being aware of the misfortunes and cruelties suffered by others in a world context.
A direct flight from Sydney to Tokyo, on a Japanese airline. The check-in is straightforward, so is the immigration – the female clerk eyes lingered on her beautiful face and did the same to the brother on his turn. Same with security, nothing else for anyone to look at with more than a cursory glance, laptops, e-readers, very light luggage. A carry-on and a small backpack for each. They walk through the shops to the lounge – familiar with the scene from the travels with the parents. They are of the same height, a little more than one eighty, the young chap perhaps a finger nail taller. Both wear flat practical shoes. Dress light for the plane, she has a black jacket over thin sleeveless cotton shirt, beige, tucked into light yellow pants. The chap is slim but strong looking. She is both slender and voluptuous in an athletic way, square shoulder, flat stomach, full upturn breasts, slim behind.
Walking into the lounge, backpack on hand she takes her jacket off, flings it over her shoulder. The gesture is electrifying, many looks at her, men and women. Quite a few women also at him.
They get water, coffee, a small bread roll for each. Sit down. She places her jacket on the carryon’s pull-stick, asks:
-
I have spots on my face?
-
No sis.
-
So why were you scrutinizing me?
-
I only checked to see if there were spots on you, as you said.
-
And why?
-
Because everyone looked at you, so I was curious.
-
Funny people do that at this airport, this lounge …
-
Funny people do that everywhere, their pastime when you move around
-
Is that a back-handed compliment or a sarcasm?
-
I’m never sarcastic to my sister.
-
Really?
She pulls her e-reader from the carry-on, leans back on the sofa, starts reading, ignoring him. Whenever he says something amusing to her she would do something else completely, totally ignoring him for a while. He would feel very lost if she doesn’t act that way. He closes his eyes, leans back to his own chair opposite hers, thinks delightedly about the way she ignores him. He does that whenever she does that.
After a while, he opens his eyes which happen to point to her direction. He discovers she was looking at him. He smiles:
-
No longer ignoring your scrutinizing brother?
She laughs, her white even teeth show:
-
I was just about to ask how come you’re not reading.
-
Well we’ll have nine ten hours quietly … with each other … so …
-
So we’ll need to sleep a little, I should and you should.
-
Good that we don’t need a light for reading, tech has gone a long way.
-
I remember you tried to steal my old-fashioned Kobo at the time.
-
And now you have given it to me, still has white background, quite a crude thing.
-
Yet you use it all the time, not swapping it to a new thing?
-
Well no, because it was yours once.
-
Everything?
-
Everything.
Her eyes smile, her lips smile, at the delicious sister-brother bantering. She says she’s going to get two small bottles of sparkling mineral water. He watches her walk to the counter, his slightly older sister - spectacular in every sense.
2
The sky is overcast when they get to the park. It is nine, park lights still on. There is a gentle breeze. They have walked from Myrtle’s flat, a distance that took more than half an hour. They saw morning activities in the freezing temperature. The neons of Shinjuku no longer lighted but the colours still there, subdued, forlorn. Tokyo in deep winter.
They find a bench a third of the way inside the park. An icy layer on the seating and on the back. Michael takes his backpack off, finds a paper napkin and quickly wipes the ice away where she would sit. Ice is on the wet grass too, on the bonsais, on the trees. Everything looks dreamy, a fairytale landscape, surreal. No one is near them.
He waits for Sophie to sit. The latter puts her backpack on the bench then sits down. He does the same, her backpack between them. She says:
-
Move mine over there with yours and sit next to me.
-
Sure sis.
-
Move closer. I don’t like the breeze between us.
-
Sure sis.
They are now closed, their thighs touch - layers of clothes between.
-
That’s better isn’t it. Do you feel some warmth?
-
Yes Sophie. I suppose we have been walking.
-
Does my leg feel warm?
-
Yes
-
Lucky you.
-
Always am, with you.
-
If I’m not your sister whom would you like me to be?
-
I don’t want you to be anyone else other than my sister.
-
Even if that may be an obstacle to other wishes.
-
Even if that, and that is true.
-
Ah, we talk in riddles, don’t we?
She laughs, somehow both happily and ruefully. Her beautiful teeth show in her beautiful mouth. He looks at them, keeps on looking at them.
-
Do I have a smudge on my lips?
-
No, they are pristine.
-
Really?
-
Really.
And with that, she leans her head on his shoulder, pushes in a little inside the nook between his neck and shoulder. He keeps still, strengthens his back to receive the wondrous pressure from her head.
She commands:
-
Put your arm around me.
He obeys.
-
Are you happy Michael?
-
Out of this world darling Sophie.
-
It has to be here, so far away from home, that we can sit like this doesn’t it.
-
True. I wish we could do this everywhere.
-
Really?
-
Really.
-
Since when?
-
Since I started remembering things.
Even with the slight breeze he can still smell the fragrance from her hair, her neck, from her soft marble skin, even lightly from within the bundle of clothes. A light lilac. He squeezes her upper arm with the fingers of his outstretched arm. It is resilient to his pressure, firm and soft, an incredibly lovely texture of flesh under the clothing fabric.
-
What’s in your mind?
-
The feel of your arm and the flagrance from you all over.
-
Pleasant?
-
Indescribably so.
-
How do you sum everything up, sitting with me like this in this park?
-
I love you.
A long breathless moment. Words have been spoken, no longer can be taken back.
-
Since when?
-
Since forever.
-
If you think I have a smudge on my lips … remove it whichever way you think best.
He turns slowly, looking at the exquisite face in the cold, her eyes open, bright, looking at him intensely, searching. Her lips red without lipstick, red-purple because of the cold, close but not tight. The ivory skin next to her lips shines, lips and skin merging into a transcendental boundary that he scarcely believes could exist. He bends slowly to her lips, her serene expression becomes a painting blurring his eyes and he becomes lost in it.
Her eyes start closing in a languid morion just before his lips touch hers. He holds the edge of her upper lip, the left side, with his own. She shudders very slightly. He moves slowly to the other side, nibbling her upper lips gently, closing his eyes. Their bodies are still except his lips. Then he feels her lips start to open.
He moves his lips to her lower lip, holding them, then envelopes all her lips into his own, sweeps his tongue across the snow of her teeth. Everything is slow, as time.
She opens her teeth, her mouth, and suddenly his tongue meets hers. She shudders again, stronger than the last time. He presses his mouth on hers, and starts sucking her tongue. She responds, and they suck each other. Their respective hand on the other’s neck. Merged into one.
Time passes, they stop the motion but still glue to each other’s mouth, breathing slowly, a little laboriously.
Then he slowly moves away from her mouth, eyes open at the same time as hers. She smiles, eyes very bright yet dreamy. Their faces are still close. She says, flagrant breath covering his face:
-
A passionate kiss, affectionate too.
-
The first between lovers …
-
Does the lover’s body react in whole
-
Strongly … very strongly …
-
Mine too. Do that again, let our bodies suffer.
He bends down, kissing her. His glorious sister. His teacher, his lover too if only in his mind, his goddess. Forever. Long before he even realized, long past.
Time luxuriously passes. They move a little away from each other. Her hand still on his neck. His arm around her shoulders, his other hand merges into hers, on her laps where underneath her innermost is throbbing, and so is his, not far away.
-
What do you want to be in the future Michael.
-
Be your slave, your soldier slave …
-
Why?
-
Because you are my Queen.
-
Even if I become someone else’s queen, even queen-mother?
-
You’re always my Queen, no one can deny me that.
She moves a little away from his neck. He is about to take his arm back but she still leans on it, turns her face to the grey sky, closes her eyes, pulls the jacket zipper from near her chin down a little to expose her white slender neck.
Understand, he turns to her, still holds her hand, still keeps the other arm under her neck in place. Bends down, inhales her exposed throat, moves his mouth and nose to one side, breathes slowly but strongly, moves to the other side, to under her chin, soaks in her richness and fragrance. Moves to the centre of her throat, kisses her there, his lips up and down, the tip of his front teeth, the tip of his tongue, trailing on her skin. She shudders.
He raises his head, releases her hand to pull her jacket zipper right up to her chin again, tight, protecting the precious neck from the cold. Then hand back to hers. Whispers:
-
No one in this world is as wonderful as you are. I keep on repeating so but it’s true.
She opens her eyes, commands:
-
Say what you said earlier.
-
I love you. I love you darling.
-
I love you too. Let’s walk to calm our bodies.
Long Vo-Phuoc, Jan-May 2026.
Lesson
(The Present)
The mother is explaining probability principles to the son. It is nine in the evening. Dinner was at six-thirty. The mother ate light as always, the son’s plate a little heavier than hers even though he is slender in built himself. Pasta with smoke salmon.
Teeth were brushed. Now a short session before each retires to their own late night activities, which are reading most of the nights. Bed time for each would be between eleven and twelve although sometimes the son moves around in his bedroom till two three past midnight. He is sixteen, having many interests, mental, digital, whatnots. The house is large for the two of them, their respective bedrooms at the opposite ends, upstairs, two spare bedrooms in between, one for guests, one used as a study. Living rooms - three, kitchen and others (laundry, storage, garage) are downstairs.
The mother is saying:
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It would help if you think of these things visually if the concepts get dense. Imagine that you place things in bocks, in discrete orders. Imagine how they appear on diagrams. Classify them as objects while looking at their distributions. After a while the physical will emerge into the abstract of your mind.
The son nods, eyes suddenly closed. His face appears somewhat dreamy. The mother, eyebrows very slightly move together on her serene face, asks somewhat sternly: have you listened?
The son opens his eyes, smiles, says: yes Ma, every word.
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Well, repeat what I said, and expand a little, so I wouldn’t think you’re my parrot.
The son delightedly obeys, does just that. He even gives an example, something they touched on fifteen minutes prior. The mother nods, beautiful smile on beautiful face, says: Good, sometimes I think your mind is elsewhere, I simply don’t know how your absorption and results stack up quite fine.
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Well I am your son … your parrot too of course
The mother looks at him for a quick second, and starts a brief chat the overlapping between probability and statistics, things that stray across the two areas …
The son listens attentively, looks at her eyes. Sometimes his eyes stray over to her high and broad forehead, to her auburn hair, briefly to her cheeks, her speaking lips, and back to her eyes.
He’s young but courteous. Particularly to her, his mother, before all else.
He asks her on matters a little further afield, on communicative groups, associativity. She explains clearly, smoothly. At times he feels he was drinking her words, swallowing them whole.
Always feels the same about his mother in times like this since he was a small child. These days, a session like this is once a week. Less often than before. Because she had decided so, seeing him know all areas of his syllabus. But she thought a little extra might help more for next year at university, or simply a little extra for the fun of maths. She said so, and he went along. If she declares just a session each week that would be perfect with him – even though, in all honesty, he wouldn’t mind a session every day (never happened), every two days (when he was perhaps eight nine or ten) – because he wants to hear his mother’s voice.
They stand up. Because she is very tall, they are of the same height, he himself already quite tall for his age. She moves her swan neck, gives him a peck on his cheek. The gesture is kind, lingering a little as always between mother and son. They are affectionate to each other.
He closes his eyes a little but makes sure opening them before she raises her head slightly, before he pecks her back. Although he’s not certain if she hasn’t noticed his closed eyes, just now. She always knows things.
He pecks her, lingering like hers, and blurts out:
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Does lace feel nice on skin, Ma?
Surprised, she looks at him for more than a second. Perhaps quite a few. They stand close to each other. If he breathes harder, he can feel in his nostrils all her scents, her tooth paste, the light shampoo on her hair from the afternoon shower, the light lilac fragrant that she somehow always has, whether because of the deodorant or a light perfume or simply her skin; and he can even sense the scent from the water glass that she sips from time to time whilst explaining things to him. Everything is understated from her, but everything is perfect.
But he wouldn’t dare breathing, this moment.
Then she nods, very slowly:
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Yes, I believe so Brian …
She hasn’t quite moved away, so he smiles, a little weakly, says: thank you Ma, sorry ..., and hesitantly pecks on her cheek again.
She laughs lightly, slaps gently on his cheek then walks to the fridge. They use the dining table for this as per habit, it’s spacious, low, heavy, old wood, quite nice.
She takes out the aged semillon bottle opened two days ago. She pours half a glass. Turns to him, says, I’m going to the study for a little read, see you tomorrow darling, and come here.
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Yes Ma darling – he says, heart still beating a little faster than usual, rushing to her.
He smiles - as she too does. They give pecks each other again, and she heads to the stairs.
In the study that they share, separately at different times even though she is the main user, she notes the digital clock on one of the shelves. A quarter past ten, that’s quick. Only a little read before bed indeed.
She pulls out an old favourite (why? Really she can’t explain it to herself, because she needs some comfort?). But there is never comfort from Alice’s books, some stories as hard as nails, sharp as a stiletto. Which is this one – Something I’ve Been Meaning To Tell You.
She has read the first story of this collection, of the same title, at least thirty times. Quite likely fifty. Read, means read carefully, word by word, line by line. To see if she could add one more, could subtract one from. But no, you can never be able to so with Alice.
Yet she cannot concentrate tonight, five minutes and she’s still on the first page. Et told Char about Blaikie. Et thought about how she met him again after all these years. Blaikie was rather forlorn in Et’s view despite trying to cheerfully do his new job, that of a tour guide. Et thought this way. Blaikie carried on that way. And Char serenely looked away, even if every work Et said registered deep in her mind …
Char, a femme fatale of the highest order, a beauty like no others in Alice’s universe. And yet …
And yet whenever being with her, decades ago, he – he of a million years ago yet seems like yesterday - would carry on as if a character Char was never worth a mention in the beauty department, the desirability stake. As if no one else worth mentioning. There was no one no one in his mind that came close to her. And forever protesting that he was simply objective.
Carrying her upstairs that first time he said he was shaky having the most beautiful woman in the world on his arms.
What would he say if seeing her now, years later she still looks the same more or less? Is she being vain or is she taking a leaf from his book, declaring that she is simply objective.
Why does she think about him more than usual tonight? Every night, yes, but tonight much more than usual? Does she know the reason, or is she still kidding herself?
She looks at the middle shelf of the central bookcase, where books of memory are placed. She glances at one title. “Galois in a playful twitch”. Her name and his name on the spine, on the front. The one small photo at the back. He had protested: I am only a helper, an acknowledgement inside if you like, but that’s all, you are the author. She brushed his feeble protest away, threatened that if he protested too much she would put his name before hers. That shushed him.
She misses him, deeply, what is there to say?
It’s now almost eleven. She should stop thinking, should change and go to bed, and confront the reality, in the mind.
Finished the glass of wine, she walks out of the study, notices across the stair case that Brian’s room still looks empty with a dimmed light on. He must still be downstairs, reading at the dining table, or watch something late on the TV (unlike him, unless there is an interesting late movie).
She walks a few steps to her room, closes the door gently but not tight (mother and son never do so to their respective rooms), walks to the ensuite bathroom, uses it briefly, rinses her mouth again, sips water, carries a glass over to her king size bed. Then she picks her pajamas on the clothes hanger, drops them onto the bed, turns the bed light to dim.
.............
Long Vo-Phuoc, 2026.