Here There are Strawberries

Maybe because it was the middle of the afternoon, or because the vehicles that normally stood between me and the road were not there today, I glanced at the trees around me and decided against it. There was an outhouse toward the barn, set up specifically for the pickers. Turning, I headed in that direction. Around me, apple trees dotted with the occasional birch of spruce stretched nearly as far as the eye could see. The smell of long-fallen apples filled the air.

Reaching a dirt road--more of a pathway, really--I turned and followed it for about a minute. Coming to the outhouse, I pulled open the door and stepped inside. Immediately, the smell of decaying apples was overtaken by the stale smell of urine and the sharper, harsher smell of cleaning chemicals. The sound of my pee hitting the bottom of the wooden hole came as a hollow echo. Stepping out of the outhouse, I washed my hands quickly with the faucet installed in the side wall, facing toward the fields. Quickly, because the water was unheated and cold enough that it sent a shock up my arms and made my fingers go immediately numb.

"Not heading into town?" I hid my surprise at the voice that spoke as I straightened. Turning, I had to hide surprise once more.

It took me a moment to recognize Godja. It was the first time I'd seen her with her hair loose; I'd been right before, it was much longer than I would have expected. A black sweep over her neck and shoulders--a couple of loose strands finding their way over the corner of her eyes and falling against the curves of her cheeks. But what took me aback, more than that, was her dress. It was a linen summer dress; almost in the style of a wedding gown, but much smaller. Two straps held it over her shoulders, and the crimped, lace-style fabric came down to just above her knees. Startlingly white against the darkness of her skin. It wasn't sheer--it wasn't, right?--but at a glance looked as if it should be, with the pattern of holes that made up its hem. It wasn't. It showed nothing, and hinted at everything.

"Uh--" I blinked, pressing the palms of my hands against the outside of my sweatpants to dry them, "No--I decided to hang back. Had some reading to finish." I don't know why I included that last part, but by the way Godja's eyes lit up, I knew I'd hit on a subject of interest.

"What are you reading?"

"The Poppy War," I admitted, slightly embarrassed.

"Fantasy! That's wonderful. I actually just finished Lord of the Rings for the first time," she held up a hand, "Don't judge me. English is my third language. I've been planning to start The Library at Mount Char for a couple of days now, and just haven't gotten around to it."

"Sorry, your third language?" I whistle softly.

"Hindi," she counted them off on her fingers, "Malayalam, English--" she gave me a slightly chagrined smile, the white edges of her teeth peeking out from beneath her dark lips, "Five, if you count a bit of French and Portuguese."

"Tu parle Francais?"

"Oui," she pinched two fingers together in front of her face, "un petit peu." She glanced at me, and the corner of her lips cocked upward for a split second, "Thaankalkku Malayalam ariyillennu enikkariyaam, pakshe ningal valare sundaranaanennu njaan karuthunnu." The words came so rapid-fire, and yet smooth as a breeze, that I found myself doing nothing but staring. I blinked, and Godja let out a low chuckle.

"What does that mean?"

"It means..." she hesitated a moment, her smile growing wider, "I know you don't speak Malayalam, but I'm heading into town to pick up some groceries and would you like to join me?"

She was lying. I couldn't certain, of course--but somehow I knew. It was a combination of the fact that what she said hadn't sounded like a question, and her still-laughing smile. But if her teasing me meant that she would keep smiling like that, I was willing to let her do it any time she liked. I hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.

"I just have to grab my wallet," I tilted my head back in the direction of my tent, "Meet you at the house?"

"I'll pick you up," one dark eye disappeared in a wink, "See you in five."

***

It turned out that Godja's truck was a lot like ours. It was an older model, a Ford F-250, painted dusty red instead of white. The dash was grey plastic, with round, old-style meters behind the wheel. Except for the fine, ever-present layer of dust that all farm vehicles seemed to contain, it was surprisingly clean; only a pair of boots and a strapped leather purse on the front seat disturbing the emptiness. As I pulled open the door, Godja grabbed both and tossed them into the back.

Stepping up and seating myself, I tried not to stare. As I turned to buckle up my seatbelt, I was confronted, very closely, by the way how her position and the fabric of the seat had drawn the lace hem of her dress up her thigh. Very nearly high enough that, behind the plastic rectangle of her own seatbelt buckle, I could make out the bottom edge of the closest cheek of her bum. The second I realized this, I wrenched my eyes away and turned to pull the door closed behind me.

"Where to?" I asked.

"I need to stop by the FreshCo for some of the bigger things," she glanced at me as she steered the truck away from the curb and onto the road. The engine rattled faintly as she drove, and gravel crunched under the tires, "but there's a Saturday afternoon farmers' market just at the end of the road. You mind if we swing by there afterwards?"

"Not at all," I shook my head. Anywhere she was going, I'd already made up my mind, I was happy to follow.

I found myself surprised once more, when she used one hand to click up the center console and, fishing around with her fingers for a moment, pulled out a white, plastic-wrapped package of Marlboro's. Slipping one out between her lips, she tilted the pack to offer me one in turn. I held up a hand.

"No, thanks. I quit a couple of years ago."

"Oh--" she glanced at me again, her eyes widening slightly, and then back to the road. She held a lighter in the flat of her palm, but made no move to light the cigarette, "I'm sorry--do you mind?"

"No!" I said, honestly, "I actually love the smell. Miss that the most, truth be told. Takes me right back to the freedom of high school weekends. Feel free to smoke around me--" another glance, "seriously."

"Okay. Thanks."

She sparked the lighter and held it to the end of the cigarette. Beside her, the window squeaked lightly as it descended, adding the sound of rushing air and heightening that of crunching gravel; smoke swirled a moment before it was pulled out of the open space beside her. I inhaled deeply through my nose, pretending it was the smoke--in truth, it was mostly her. Unbelievably, I could still smell strawberries on her; it took me a moment to realize it wasn't actually fruit, but the slightly more manufactured smell of strawberry, either from her shampoo or a body cream. Beneath the first two were dust, and spices, and the smell from her truck that was entirely... Godja. The personal smell that everybody has. Hers was salt, and cloves, and something that reminded me of freshly-brewed herbal tea.

"Why'd you quit?"

I shrugged, "Had a scare a couple of years ago. Thought it was throat cancer, but turned out to just be a bad case of strep. Had to go through about a month of tests." I had to raise my voice, speaking over the sound of air entering the vehicle.

"That sucks," her voice sounded genuine, "I don't get to smoke very often. I never do it around my little brothers, so it's really only when I go into town."

"Little brothers?" I asked, surprised once more. I hadn't seen them around the farm.

"They're at my aunt's place in Kenora. Closer to camps for the summer. That's where my parents are. They visit them on the weekends; aunt Devi makes the best dahi bhalla vada on this side of the ocean..." Godja laughed softly, "or so she claims."

"I... don't know what that is." I admitted.

"Of course not!" She bumped the base of her hand against her forehead, "It's--" she squinted, either in thought or against the sunlight that came in through the top of the windshield, "How to describe this? Picture a Timbit made of lentils, covered in yogurt and spicy sauces." She looked at me out of the corner of her eyes, "Okay, I'm doing a terrible job of selling this to you, I can see. I tell you what. Next weekend, I will make some dahi bhalla and you can try it."

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"We're buying groceries anyways," she smiled, "and it's been ages since I had a reason to do some proper cooking." We blew past a stop sign, without another person to be seen, "I'm only worried that I won't do justice to the dish any more. In India I did a lot of cooking. Here--not so much. The farm, you know? Very busy."

"I'm sure you're--it's still amazing," I corrected myself quickly, "When did you move to Canada?"

"When I was eighteen," Godja shook her head slightly, "It feels like yesterday, most days. It's been--" she squinted again, "wow, eleven years? Ten and a half, I suppose."

Once again, I blinked in surprise. I didn't voice my thoughts, though. I wouldn't have put Godja's age at much over twenty, by looking at her; she was poised, certainly, and the small lines at the corner of her eyes might have been a hint, but she certainly didn't look nearly thirty. Either a young twenty-four, or a composed twenty. Admittedly, it was a bit strange to learn that she was three years older than myself. As she turned to glance at me, the sunlight caught in the small golden earrings in her closest ear and made them blink brightly.

"You're shocked at my age."

It wasn't phrased as a question, and I wondered what had given me away. It certainly wasn't my facial expression. Maybe it was the moment of silence as I thought, very quickly doing the math.

"No--well, yes, a little bit. I just wouldn't have guessed. You look much younger."

"Does it bother you?"

"No!" I answered, quickly and a bit louder than my previous statement. I moderated my voice, still raised over the sound of the wind, "No, not at all. Why would it?"

"I don't know. Some men are strange about those kind of things. How old you are, Thomas?"

"Twenty-six," I answered, "I'm actually turning twenty-seven next Friday."

"Oh, congratulations!" She exclaimed, "Well then you have to let me cook you dahi bhalla for your birthday. I may even break out the baking supplies and make besan ladoo," she dropped her nearest eye in a quick wink, "just for that sweet comment about my looks."

I covered my blush by looking out the passenger-side window. Around us, farm fields swept by, the stalks or their corn and wheat a blurred swath of gold and yellow. Godja finished her cigarette and, pinching out the end, tucked it into a water bottle in the drivers' side door.

***

The day passed slowly, but pleasantly. We walked through the almost chilly, air-conditioned aisles of FreshCo, a basket in each of my hands while she filled one with supplies. I grabbed a couple of things for myself; cheese, bread, hummus, an extra set of salt and pepper in their own individual paper shakers, a bag of apples, a case of water. We paid, and I arranged the bags in the back of her truck.

On our way to the farmers' market, we got talking about fantasy. It turns out, she'd read most most of the books that I normally recommend. As we parked, in the middle of discussing The Way of Kings and walked away from the vehicle, she slipped an arm under mine, hooking it at the elbow. I glanced at her in surprise.

"Oh, come now. Walk a pretty girl through the market, won't you?"

I blinked, taken aback slightly. Admittedly, it wasn't unpleasant; in fact, it was far from that. As we walked down the small stone path toward the clearing where the market had been set up, stalls lining the edge of a wide walkway, I breathed in the smell of her. It held a hint of strawberries, under the sharper smells of clean sweat, dirt, and deodorant. Her hair was bound behind her, and swung against the back of my arm while we walked together. Even without music, Godja always appeared to be walking to a rhythm, like at any moment she might break out into dance.

I mostly hung back as she chatted with vendors, obviously people that she'd known for awhile. Between stalls, I began to pick up small facts about her. Her family was from a place called Chapari, in the north-east corner of India, about a hundred kilometers from the border of Bangladesh. She'd only been speaking English, fully, for about ten years--a fact that I found unbelievable. I hadn't heard her stumble over a word yet, and even her pronunciation of fantasy names was, I thought, more proper than my own. Her family had been fruit farmers in India as well; apple and figs, instead of apples and strawberries.

As the afternoon stretched on, while Godja slowly collected supplies in a large paper bag from the stalls, I got to know her more. Not the facts of her life--but Godja. I watched the easygoing, almost crass exterior fade away as we spoke; beneath it was something... different. She still smiled often, but it was a close-lipped smile, gentler than previous, and more genuine-looking. She spoke about her star-chart and, remembering my birthday, told me about my own. Apparently I was a Cancer sun, and a Taurus moon, neither of which I had known. We spent time discussing the traits of both. She laughed at the first, and seemed satisfied at the second. She was a Aries sun and both her rising and moon were in Gemini, which I tucked away for future reference. I had no idea what any of them meant, but by the way she talked about them I figured it was important to her.

Besides, it didn't really matter. I would have listened to Godja talk about star-signs and moon-signs for days on end, just to keep hearing her voice. Now that we were alone, that had changed slightly as well. Her accent came through a bit more, and there was an almost hoarse tone to the bottom of her words that I found incredibly charming.

As we walked back to the truck, I realized that we'd been walking for about three hours. My legs were tired and, inside of my work boots, my feet ached. I forgot all about both, when she slipped her hand into mine. The one that wasn't holding her paper bag. This was different, than the arm before. She did it almost tentatively, resting her palm against the inside of my wrist for a moment, until I moved to take it. As we approached the back of the truck, I glanced over and saw a small smile on her lips.

"You're... unusual," I said, suddenly.

She glanced at me, eyebrows rising slightly over her forehead, "Is that a bad thing?"

"No--no, not at all. It's wonderful, actually. I've just never met anybody quite like you."

We'd reached the back of the truck, and she reached up to place the paper bag over the side of the cab, resting it against the tailgate. I expected her to let go of my hand so that she could walk back to the drivers' side of the vehicle. Instead she turned, leaning with her back against the dull red paint. Her bum rested just above the wheel well.

"Would it be unusual to ask if you were thinking about kissing me?"

We were standing close, I now realized. Close enough that, even though she was leaning backward against the truck, our legs were nearly touching. I met her eyes for a moment, trying to read in their darkness whether she was joking or not. Yesterday, I would have said with certainty that she was teasing. Now, I wasn't sure. Over the course of the day, I'd watched her go from lighthearted and insulting to an almost quiet kind of earnestness. Both were pleasant to be around. Only one was genuine--which one, I wasn't certain yet.

"No, I don't suppose that would be unusual."

"And what would your answer be?" Between us, she turned her hand slightly.

In answer, I stepped forward. There were only a couple of inches difference between us in height, but I still found myself lowering my face to bring my lips against hers. It wasn't a deep kiss. Only a brushing of the front of my lips to hers, holding them there for a brief moment. When I stepped back, still holding her hand, she exhaled through her nose. A gust of air that ruffled the top of her lacey dress. The smile came back.

"Yeah, I thought so," she spoke quietly--quiet enough that I came slightly closer to hear her, "You kiss like a Cancer."

"What does that me--?" Before I could finish my question, she stepped forward and kissed me. Properly. Wrapping one hand around the back of my head, she drew me down into a kiss that left me feeling breathless. I matched her; hands going around her hips, pushing her back gently against the side of the truck cab. She acquiesced to the movement immediately, her other hand going to the other side of my head. Our lips parted, and I felt her tongue inside of my mouth, drawing mine out to move against it.

I don't know how long we stood there for. It had been years, maybe not since high school, that I'd kissed somebody, like this. Or rather--been kissed by somebody, like this. Our heads moved one way and then the other, grasping hungrily at one anothers' mouths; eager, almost sloppily so. The way that people kiss when they're too young to know what they're doing, or how to do it properly. When we finally separated, her breath was a whoosh of air against the bottom of my face as she exhaled, on the verge of laughter.

"That's how you kiss an Aries--just for future reference."

"Noted," I nodded, still caught somewhere between the desire to kiss her again, and disbelief that it had happened in the first place, "So, uh, can I ask you out to..." I squinted at her slightly, "dinner? Drinks? Coffee? I don't really know how the dating scene works, these days, if I'm being honest. I think normally I'm supposed to do that before we make out."

She smiled again, "Tell you what, why I don't I ask you in for dinner? I believe I made a promise about dahi bhalla at some point today. My parents are still in Kelowna for the weekend. They usually don't get back until late on Sunday."

"That sounds... perfect."

"It's a date," she nodded.

***

It was just before four PM, when I knocked on the front door of the brick house. I'd left the camp, catching a strange expression from Charlie when he noticed the direction I was headed in--not down the path toward the field, but over in the direction of the driveway. I hadn't told either of them, about the day before. They must have suspected; after all, I wasn't exactly wearing summer clothes. I'd dug out my best pair of dark jeans, the ones recently washed in the local coin-laundry and unworn since, and a button-up grey shirt. It wasn't exactly my fanciest set of clothes, but it was as good as it got for the clothing I'd brought with me. If not that, the bottle of wine definitely gave it away. Neither of them had said a word, but I saw a couple of exchanged glances as I left--I was certain that, on my return, I would be hearing nothing but questions.

I certainly hadn't packed expecting to have dinner with a beautiful woman. I hadn't packed expecting anything of the sort. Now, standing on the front porch with a bottle of wine in my hand, I felt slightly foolish. Shrugging mentally, I raised my hand and knocked against the white-painted wood. Almost before my hand had time to lower, it swung inward.

She was gorgeous. It took my eyes a moment to adjust enough to realize just how gorgeous, but when they did I found myself lost for words. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, the front held in place only by a pair of thin gold clips. She was wearing a dress somewhat similar to the one she'd worn yesterday; off-white, and hanging off one shoulder in a way that reminded me, quite strangely, of the overalls that she wore in the fields. She was barefoot, and I noticed that the nails of her toes were painted a deep blue. When she blinked, tiny slivers of silver in her eyeshadow made it look like her face was sparkling.