Chapter I

My name is not really important. But I guess if you need a name to call me, it can be Anta, pronounced, aunt-tuh. Age doesn’t matter much since I’ve always felt like an old man, though people tell me I look very young for my age. I’ve also been told I’m attractive, with my solid build; close-cut, jet-black hair; brown eyes; and naturally wheat-colored skin, suggesting a perpetual tan. More than one person has commented on my large chest and thought me far taller than my average height. My face supposedly varies from rugged to boyish, depending on my expression. Some people think I can pass for anything from Italian to an Asian of mixed blood. Yet, I still I tend to view myself as an oaf, since I wear thick glasses and have a tendency to become overweight when I don’t exercise.

I’ve never really associated much with people my age because they all seemed so flighty (for lack of a better word). On the other hand, many people have told me I’m too serious a person. So I guess somewhere in-between those two extremes is who I am.

I live in the same area where I grew up, a suburb northeast of Los Angeles. There are no beaches where I live. In the mornings, I can look out the window and see the snowcapped San Gabriel Mountains rising up to the north. Palm trees sit next to massive oak trees that line the street I drive down to the local community college where I teach various computer skills. I also do freelance tutoring and consulting.

The semester in question, I was teaching two class sessions. My second session, an early evening class, was about to get underway. In an evening class the student body is usually eclectic. Most of them are typically younger males, a few younger females here and there, and occasionally a smattering of older males trying to improve their job position. This particular class appeared no different. I looked at the students, trying to figure out their respective personalities, and whether they would need extra attention. Basically, I wanted to discern if they would give me any trouble. So far, it appeared none of them would create problems. There was a young female who appeared no older than nineteen, and I noticed several of the other young men in the room were already appraising their chances with her. I didn’t understand why because I didn’t consider her particularly attractive, although she wasn’t ugly by any means. I had written her off as another student, off limits to a teacher anyway. So it really didn’t matter what I thought of her appearance. But I knew I’d have to make sure there would be no problems during the semester.

Glancing at my watch, I adjusted my notes so I could begin class. I was about to greet everyone, when one last person glided into the back of the class. I say glided because it was exactly what she did.

She was an older woman, but it was difficult to estimate her age because she had an ageless quality. I’d have guessed she was in her mid to late forties, but from behind she could easily been mistaken for a woman in her mid-twenties. I couldn’t tell her race, either, because the best features of all races seemed to be exquisitely blended together in her.

She had slightly curled, shoulder-length, raven black hair, with streaks of white adding an additional touch of distinguished character to her. A simple silver comb held her mane away from her lightly bronzed face, where two impossibly soft brown eyes gazed out. The woman was modestly dressed in blue jeans and a white blouse that demurely hid a trim, but extremely well-proportioned figure. She was petite—no more than five-feet-four-inches—but her carriage was regal, suggesting tallness and inner strength. She was strikingly beautiful, to say the least, like veined marble flawlessly pure in color and texture. And I found it hard not to get lost in her eyes or feel awed in her presence.

The first day was spent mostly doing housekeeping, handing out syllabi, talking about requirements and general things the students would need to know to pass the course. In between explanations, I noticed that several of the young men let their attention wander towards the two attractive females. I didn’t say anything, rationalizing that as long as they did their work and didn’t disrupt the class, they could let their minds wander. The two females paid them no mind, however. They seemed ready to learn, making me happy because I was there to teach.

The class went by quickly and I finished my lesson earlier than I’d expected. I explained that if they wanted to speak with me, they were more than welcome to do so after class. A few of the younger students asked mostly about grading. Two of the older gentlemen in the class asked me about how strict I was on lateness, since they worked and might not be able to always hand in the assignments on time. I answered I was more interested in them learning and applying the principles than anything else.

Finally, after several minutes of answering questions, I packed up and began to leave. Exiting the classroom, I saw the older woman waiting in the hallway. I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect what happened next.

“Hi, I’d like to know if I could program in LISP?”

At first the question didn’t register. I knew what LISP was, but I hadn’t used it since I took a class in A.I., artificial intelligence, many years ago. When the question did register, I started to wonder why someone would take a class in programming when they knew such an obscure language in the first place. She didn’t seem like someone who liked to waste her time or someone else’s, so why was she in my class? And from looking in her eyes, I could tell she was perfectly serious about the question.

“Uh, I’d planned on having people use PERL and Java,” I replied.

“I’d like to use LISP if I can,” she answered somewhat apologetically.

“If you know how to program, why are you in this class?” was my reply.

“I don’t know how to program. I’m in the class because—” she began nonchalantly.

It was at this point my stomach informed the world I hadn’t eaten all day. The loud gurgling growl was met by a slight smile and a sympathetic question by the older woman.

“I can see I’m not the only one vying for your attention. Why don’t we discuss this over a friendly dinner?”

It turned out Sofia was the older woman’s name. I told her I thought it might not be proper to eat dinner with her since I was her instructor. To this, she responded she could sympathize with my position. However, as my stomach was telling the world it wanted food, and her stomach felt like it would begin to sing a duet with mine, it might be better to go find a place to eat nearby, rather than be distracted in the classroom by our bodily needs. I had begun to think about this little point of logic, when Sofia added she was not in the habit of dining with strangers.

“Besides,” she said with a wry grin, “you’re young enough to be my younger brother, and I promise not to tell if you won’t.”

I was about to decline again, but her grin was inviting, even if she wasn’t being coquettish. I felt a strange connection to her that made me want to believe I could trust her at her word. I conceded with an exaggerated sigh and asked her to lead me where she would.