Tentatively, I stepped forward and unsheathed the iaito in one smooth motion, making sure the immediate cut would precede my foot and yet that the stance was secure and stable before the sword hit its imaginary target—a true challenge in coordination and body control. My posture would be low enough to conceal my feet’s position under the folds of the hakama. The tip of the blade arrives first, I reminded myself when I let the training blade sink into my unseen enemy vertically.

“Excellent,” complimented the Shihan, “your movements are getting more fluid.”

Relieved, almost too relaxed, I performed chiburi—the gesture that shakes the blood off the blade—and aligned the blunt back side (mune) with the saya—the scabbard. The distinct grinding of the iaito’s mune against the koiguchi (scabbard's mouth) while aligning the tip with it gave away my over-eager clumsiness. The testimony of my momentary lack of patience and attention made me wince internally.

“Mō ichi do—again!” shouted the Shihan. “No noise this time. One smooth motion. It mustn’t be fast. Speed is no what you aim for. You want to be fluid and do it in one single motion. Never forget that the Bushido of our school is sobriety and simplicity. Simplicity knows no unnecessary movement and sobriety knows no noise. It is only through disciplined repetition and self-criticism that a warrior will be able to cleanse his spirit and find honor. This is bushido.”

He demonstrated what he meant for the umpteenth time this evening alone, how after throwing off the notional blood, he let the blunt side of the steel slide over the crooked joint of his left hand’s index, how the tip grazed the sensitive skin between his thumb and finger, indicating it was perfectly placed, how the left hand guided the sheath over the blade and finally, the blade homed into the hilt without as much as a hint of a noise. With the same fascination, I observed how, just like in the movies, the only audible sound was the clicking of the tsuba (handguard) against the koiguchi, making it appear deafeningly loud and powerful.

“Again!” he ordered with a calm but assertive voice that spoke volumes about his patience with untalented students like me.

I mimicked his movements, watched myself closely in the mirror, evaluating every little motion of mine, resisting the urge to steal my two fellow pupils a reassuring glance that would tell me they were no better off than me after merely a year of practice.

“Yame!" the Shihan ordered us to stop. "Reishiki!” he announced the end of the class and initiated the lesson’s closing ritual performed all in seiza—kneeling. Even here, albeit by now routined, the ritual was performed with the necessary time given to all parts to properly honor the spirits of the dojo, the lineage of Senseis and Shihans and the greater spirit of Bushido—the way of the warrior.

“Never forget, my students,” he began one of his habitual closing lectures, “although our Bushido dictates sobriety and simplicity, you will face decisions in your life that seem, at that moment, far from your virtuous path. It is most important that, whichever way you decide to take, you do so with full conviction and without ever hesitating. Even when you look back on your choice in doubt, remember that you decided with all your heart. Always be aware that your decisions brought you where you are. This too is bushido. If you stray from the path, do it with all your might and never look back to question your decision.”

Still kneeling, we bowed one last time, murmuring our gratitude to the spirits of bushido.

As it was our custom, we folded the hakama on the tatami, facing the portrait of our style’s founder before going to the dressing rooms.

“I have an announcement to make,” the Shihan started. “On Saturday will be my seventieth birthday and I would like to invite all of you, my students, to my place for a barbecue.”

Feeling honored, and since I had no plans for that day, I gladly accepted the invitation and politely asked what I could bring.

The mid-spring evening was warm but it was still early enough in the season that the nights were chilly, so I had opted for wearing my favorite padded, worn-out-looking lumberjack shirt open. Upon arriving and knocking at the host’s door, I chuckled at the idea that my attire, in combination with my disheveled pretend-surfer-beau hairdo made me look like coming straight out of a ‘93 Nirvana show in downtown Seattle.

As the door flung open, my breath got stuck in my throat. Instead of my master, I got greeted by a radiant smile framed by blonde curls and light green eyes that spoke of joy upon seeing me.

“H-hi,” I stumbled, awkwardly offering my hand.

“So you’re Nathan,“ she beamed, grabbing my hand and pulling me into a tight hug that confirmed the initial optical estimation that her boobs had to feel like soft cushions when they crashed against my chest. “You’re Simon’s best student, he’s told me so much about you. So pleased to finally meet you.”

An insecure chuckle left my throat at her words, surprised by them as Simon was a very strict and demanding grandmaster and seldom dished out compliments.

As she released me from the hug that was slightly longer and tighter than the social consensus, I tried to untie my tongue. “And you are…” I paused, carefully testing the waters. “…his daughter, I assume?”

A friendly pat on my shoulder and a burst of delightful laughter was her reply. “Oh, aren’t you a charmer! This sort of flattery will get you anywhere, son. I’m his wife.”

The shame inflaming my cheeks made her laugh even more, knowing exactly what effect it had on me. On a second, very hard (and, hopefully, not too gawking) glance, her features, indeed, indicated that she had to be in her mid-, maybe late fifties but that she wore her age with dignity and that she embraced every ounce of curvaceous femininity her body oozed—and how it affected young, stupid kids like me. She was obviously enjoying my inability to even apologize for my clueless bluntness.

“Mindy,” she offered, professionally and with much expertise in defusing the situation.

“Pleased to meet you, Mindy, and thank you for having me over. Your place is fantastic,” I genuinely complimented her tastefully decorated interior as I handed her the box of still-warm brownies I had made at her husband’s request.

She opened the lid and took a deep breath of the heavy aroma. “Damn, how much butter did you put in those?”

I chuckled and replied, “Butter is love.”

She took another sniff before closing the box again. “I like me a man who knows how to cook with love,” she said, her voice slightly sexier than she had probably intended. She chuckled. “I’ll have to hide those and keep them to myself.”

“Want me to feed them to you?” I offered, not thinking my words through exactly, then dismissed my incautious attempt at a trite flirt with a cheesy smile.

“Oh my, you are a charmer,” she emphasized her previous statement before grabbing my arm and walking me to the garden. “…and maybe a bit of a feeder too?” she completed her assessment of me, successfully covering her hesitation and abashment with her melodic laughter. “Lucky me, I’m at an age where looks don’t matter that much anymore.”

Before I could embarrass myself any further by unsolicitedly commenting on what her curves did to my mind and telling her that she was, in fact, a ravishing beauty, we had already reached the garden where I got reminded why I was there. As the Shihan offered me his hand, I felt the heat rise in my cheeks but I forced myself to a smile and a firm handshake. He, however, pulled me into a full-body hug.

“I see you’ve met my wife,” he teased upon releasing the hug, still holding my shoulders, a wide shit-eating grin over his face.

Before I could blush from being caught red-handed, I saw my two fellow pupils who were sitting at the table, squirming awkwardly at Simon’s teasing—obviously, they had suffered the same fate. I chuckled at the view of the two of them being just as flustered at me.

“Here, sit,” Simon said, motioning me to take a seat, “help yourself to some salad, snacks and drinks, will ya? Make yourself at home. The meat, cheese and veggies are gonna be ready soon. Or wanna have some prawns? We still have some in the fridge.”

I politely declined the offer, feeling slightly over-cared for and not wanting to appear greedy.

We ate, talked, and had a great time listening to the episodes from Simon’s over fifty years of experience in martial arts.

After a while, I noticed how Mindy was still taking care of supplying us with perfectly roasted goods and probably never even had the time to feed herself. With my empty plate in hand, I joined her at the grill.

“What can I offer you, hun?” she asked (she called me ‘hun’!). “There’s a beautiful medium-rare steak that’s just waiting to jump into your plate or wanna have some more eggplant? Or halloumi?”

“You’ve been standing here for ages, Mindy. Come join us. I can take it for five minutes,” I offered; as an argument, I added, “before the garlic sauce you made is gone. Would be a shame if you didn’t get any of it. It’s killer.”

“Oh my, aren’t you a well-mannered cutie,” she rejected the offer. “It’s fine, I’ve eaten enough between helpings. I think that’s the last serving anyway.” A broad smile appeared on her lips. “But you noticed my garlic sauce. It’s my favorite.”

“Hell yeah, it’s amazing. I’d love to have the recipe.”

“Oh, it’s really easy, I can show you, but thank you for noticing. I really do appreciate it when people notice my efforts,” she acknowledged my compliments with a distinct undertone of resentment. Before the uncomfortable silence sank in too much, she tried to cover her frustration with more flirtations again. “It’s good to meet someone who enjoys and values good food.”

“Life’s too short to waste it on bad food,” I retorted. “You know, Simon always says that bushido is what you make of it as long as you do it with all your spirit and I’m proud to be fond of good food and to recognize the effort put into it. Cooking and eating require just as much dedication as the way of the blade.”

She chuckled at my overly free interpretation of bushido. “Why, thank you, but isn’t that a bit of a stretch? Now I don’t really know how important good and diverse food was on the battlefield back then but I’ll gladly accept the compliment, you cheeky charmer, you.” She paused, waiting for my cheeks to blush again. “But why don’t you go back now before your plate gets cold again.”

“Or maybe you just want some company?” I insisted, not wanting her to feel excluded from the social activities.

“Why, thanks, that’s so sweet of you,” she said in her soft, motherly voice. “But you don’t have to. I’m just a boring old housewife with nothing to offer except cleaning tips—and a killer recipe for garlic sauce.”

Beyond the throwaway remark about her cooking skills acting as just a thin veil, I thought I heard a distinct note of loneliness in her voice as if she was missing something crucial in her life. Without wanting to invade or stick my nose into things, I pressed on, “If you’re almost done anyway, you won’t mind me keeping you company and complimenting you on your barbecuing.”

She smiled over both ears—a genuine smile wrinkling up her laugh lines. It was a beautiful sight that nearly made my heart melt on the spot. “Oh, you silver-tongued devil, you. Using the old hag to test your lines, are we?”

Her tease caught me off guard. I was dumbstruck on the spot, looking at her with eyes wide open, temperature in my cheeks easily rising to boiling point, unsure of my own motives and somewhat feeling caught red-handed although I had genuinely only wanted to be nice to her.

“I, I just meant to,” I started, backpedaling halfway through, not sure of how to formulate my excuse—an excuse for what, really?—mind racing through its early ‘twen’-aged standstill. “Just thought I’d say thanks in case no one had so far.”

She put the steak and two slices of eggplant on my plate. “I’m just messing with you, sugar,” she said, knowing exactly which effect the sweet pet name had on me. “That’s very considerate of you. You’re the first to thank me indeed and it means a lot to me.”

As she said that, I thought I was hearing the frustration over the under-appreciation of her quite significant contribution to the success of the evening in her voice.

“Now g’wan, no need to waste your time on an old boring housewife. Go join your buddies, kid,” she said with a somewhat exaggerated self-ironic tone that not only felt like a playful spank in the right direction but also reeked of a feeble attempt at covering something far deeper, far more hurtful.

As I re-joined the table, everyone was still hanging to the Shihan’s every word. As he saw me, he slurred, “Oh, you’re back, good. Come sit and eat, my student.” Something in me told me that there was more he wanted to say and judging from the number of empty wine bottles at his feet, his inhibitions to vent were more than just slightly lowered. And just as prophesied, he added, “Hope she didn’t keep you bored too much.”

Although he said it like just a casual phrase and no matter how much feigned irony he tried to force over his voice, I could hear the deprecation yelling at me loud and clear. This only supported the feeling that had been churning my insides when talking to Mindy. Try as I might but it gave the food, regardless of Mindy’s barbecuing skill, a sour taste. It also cast an ugly shadow over Simon’s earlier lessons on bushido.

For the rest of the evening, I quietly ate my plate, added some potato salad to it to wash away the taste of rotting death that accompanied my gut feeling as the Shihan went on, sharing anecdotes. They appeared in a dimmer light as his self-indulgence and presumptuousness seemed to culminate proportionally to his alcohol intake while the other students hung to his every word as if hypnotized. I wondered which kinds of questionable but unregretted decisions in the name of bushido it had taken in his life to bring him to this unflattering moment.

Soon after we were done eating, Mindy started collecting the plates. As I got up to help her, Simon chided, “Let her do it, my student,” with a distinct tone of depreciation in his voice that only added a pang of bitterness to the already rotten taste on my palate.

I insisted on giving her a hand and heard no more objection. I only got an apologetic smile from her that, once more, hurt me in my heart as I saw it. I forced a smile back but gave it no hope it would cover how I truly felt at that moment.

In the kitchen, when we were filling the dishwasher and cleaning the wine glasses, she muttered, “You know, he’s not always like this.” It sounded more than a desperate try at excusing his behavior. “It’s his birthday. It’s okay if he drinks a bit today.”

The way she explained the limited time frame of her husband’s conduct didn’t convince me into believing it was an isolated occasion. Her tone, however, spoke another language but despite the urge to give her the opportunity to vent, I didn’t want to intrude or to cause a scene with all the guests present—and especially not in front of my master. Still, I saw in her eyes how she read the concern that was written all over my face.

She gave me a dismissive smile and thanked me politely for being a well-mannered young man. A light pang of pain shot through my chest as she reminded me of our age gap and that I had been very foolish to think I could offer her comfort, a part of me wanting to give her far more than that.

Ashamed of my unrealistic and impure thoughts, I walked back to the garden where everyone was thanking the Shihan for the invitation and gave their goodbyes. Naturally, I thought, his wife did not get the deserved credit for her incessant work.

After everyone had gone, I heard him slur a few unintelligible words before his body went limp in his garden chair and he started snoring obscenely, giving a pathetic picture of a man of honor I was, by then, nearly ashamed of ever having looked up to.

In my awkward bashfulness, I took a stick and poked at the dying embers in the grill, lost in thoughts. What was it I was really ashamed of? That I had been looking up to a boorish idiot who had only just worn a mask all the time? Yes, there were no girls or women in the school, true, but I had always brushed it off as iaido not being a girls’ sport.

Or was I ashamed for wanting to comfort his wife and sticking my nose into things that weren’t my concern? Maybe his behavior that day really was exceptional, or they were really just going through a rough patch. Ashamed of my own ulterior motives? For wanting to show her I find her an attractive person despite what society might think of women her age? Or maybe ashamed for my whole gender for being so inconsiderate? I had been the only one even helping after all—and even been chided by her husband for it.

“Don’t make that face, sweetie,” she said, trying to lift my spirits while obviously not being in her best mood either.

“Wanna sit down and watch the stars a little?” I offered, managing a half-hearted frown.

Her unsteady gaze evaded mine but before she could think about it too much and shoo me with more excuses, she said, “What the hell, we’re done cleaning.” She paused, sighing. “And Simon’s happily snoring away.” Here as well, the way she added that made me question the clement and lenient nature my master seemed to have during the lessons as well as the zen aura that came oozing out of all his pores.

We sat on the cool grass in the chill night air. I had donned my lumberjack jacket and was feeling cozy while she was still just wearing her thin summer dress.

After a short moment of silence, I noticed she was shivering and having goosebumps, so I threw my jacket over her shoulders, which was met with meek protest. “You don’t have to do this, you’ll be cold.” Yet, her hand gripping the jacket’s fringes and holding it close in front of her spoke another language. So did her gaze that was fixed to the ground in search of what to say; maybe also for when anyone had treated her so nicely, I feared but tried to dismiss the thought and not to make the situation more dramatic than it already was.

“It’s been…” she began, hesitating, “… a while since…” more hesitation, making me wince, “…I’ve just sat down like this.” Although I was trying not to interpret too much into it, my mind filled in the blanks. “It’s nice. Thank you,” she finally said, more determined.

We remained there, silent, enjoying the view and the air slowly getting cooler as the pitch darkness of the night slowly crept over the sky and more stars appeared one after another. Slowly, and without noticing, we were moving toward each other. With no permission needed, I felt her rest her head against my shoulder. Because it felt just so natural, I let it happen; it didn’t even occur to me to question it.

I heard her hum a melody. The moment was calm and soothing for me too. For that short instant, I forgot all the questions that had been churning my insides and had tainted the picture I’d had of my grandmaster, making me feel bad for thinking so poorly of him.

Sitting here with her like this, I couldn’t help a smile. That brief moment was just so perfect and I foolishly wished for it not to end.

Yet, as she lifted her head from my shoulder again and sat up again, reaching back to support herself on her hand, it landed on mine. Startled, I turned a bit to find her face riddled with surprise. With one hand, she was still holding my jacket closed while the other lingered on mine and her eyes searched my face for a way to break the tension.

Dumbstruck by her unexpected touch, words failed me just as badly. Only the fact that she was suddenly close enough to me to be unable to make my eyes focus on her face anymore, told me that we had approached dangerously close.

And just as I wanted to cup her cheek with my free hand and give in to her tantalizing breath on my lips, we both turned away from each other, blushing in our shame.

“You… er… I…” she tried, voice cracking at every syllable and yet, our fingers were caressing each other.

“Yeah, I should…” I tried as our hands finally entwined, “…probably go.”

It hurt so much to say it and I could see the pain in her eyes too although she knew it was the right decision. In her abashment, she pulled my jacket closer together, concealing her body from my view even more.

I desperately wanted to apologize but words simply failed me. At that moment, I didn’t even notice she was still wearing my favorite jacket, so I just stepped away and left the place.

The fifteen minutes walk home felt like the literal home stretch as it seemingly would never end although I knew it by heart. Too busy was my mind with the events of the previous hours, conflicting thoughts and emotions haunting both my heart and mind. Only while finally turning the key in the lock, I realized my mistake of leaving my jacket there but I was too tired to worry about it.

After a night of tossing and turning in intense dreams, scenarios and wishful thinking which put my integrity into question, I got up early, feeling like an overrun owl, to call Simon and tell him I’d come and collect my jacket in the afternoon. I just needed to come up with an excuse for why I had forgotten it. This, I would rack my brains about if he ever popped the question. I could have just as well left it hanging in the wardrobe, why not? For all he knew, I simply vanished, snoring like the little pig he looked like.

After procrastinating the call with a breakfast that kept getting stuck in my throat and a burnt-tasting, yet thin coffee, I decided it was best just to tell him and not try to make up any excuses; in the end, everyone forgets something every now and then, right?

Just as I had finished dialing his number and I was hearing the call sound, the doorbell rang. I hung up the phone and went to the door, not caring about my attire. Anyone who rang at the door this early on a Sunday morning just had the eyesore of a half-asleep youngling wearing a two-week-worn pajama-grade basketball shirt, sporting a morning-semi in his holed boxers coming. Would serve them right.

Swinging open the door, though, I dropped the phone to the floor. If my jaw hadn’t been attached to my face, it would have followed along. Standing in front of me was Mindy, wearing my checkered, padded lumberjack jacket—fully buttoned this time—and, as far as I could tell at first glance, short shorts that didn’t even go beneath the fringe of my jacket, for all I saw was naked legs.

Her face was glowing red and her voice came as a fluttered chirp. “You forgot something at our place yesterday.”

“Y-yeah,” I managed, cleared my throat and faintly remembered my upbringing. “Wanna come in and… uh… like, have some… coffee?” I literally had nothing else to offer her.

Once inside, she stepped out of her sandals, unbuttoned my shirt and let it slide down her arms.

The moment she did, my brain slowed time to a grinding halt as my eyes registered every millisecond of how, slowly, her body underneath my shirt was revealed: the freckles on the top of her boobs, the laced, unpadded bra that hugged her breasts which lazily hung in the cups, filling them deliciously, her belly with the delectably deep belly button, and the panties that matched the bra.

Now I understood why I hadn’t seen the seam of her shorts—because she wasn’t wearing any.