Mrs. B. was a strange creature. Her green and yellow parrots haunted her conservatory with the royal attire of their plumage and their savage voices, much like the adorned kings of an ancient civilization whose language is lost to the modern world. She swung from Emily to Brian and then to Andrew -- as they were named -- in an ecstasy. When somebody visited her, she would look at them with a strange gleam in her eye, put them to the test by saying "Aren't they wonderful?"

She would then lead them straight to her minions, as if to say that whoever wanted to come near herself should deal with her parrots first. I had met her at an AA meeting group, and her nodding head had lured me into conversation: she also drank white wine in the evenings to unwind when, after a day of caring for her patients in a nursing home, she felt too lonely. She also had nobody to talk to -- that is except for her parrots, but I did not know about them yet. Therefore, I swallowed my fear of women in a breath and suggested we should have a drink... Ehm... a chat.

At that, she propped her head straight against her right hand and with a strange shrill voice she said: "You should come to visit one of these days."

A few afternoons later, I stood in front of her door with a bunch of red carnations in my hand, trying to divine what was going on inside, wishing I had never had the idea in the first place, for I hadn't dated a woman for years. Besides, she was, beyond any doubt, at least six or seven years my elder. So, I rang the bell once and was ready to give up, when, after a while, I saw her blond head and white ghoulish arms stretch out of the window at the top floor.

She came quickly to the door, smelled the flowers and welcomed me in. Her living room was large and clean, the walls were a creamy colour, and the curtains were of deep purple velvet. Outside it was almost evening. She drew the curtains. We sat on her leather sofa and soon she said in a low, hypnotic way, she wanted to show me something.

Anxiety made the hair stand on my arms, but I hid it well, until she opened the conservatory door and gestured at me. Once inside, she closed the door with a click and I stood still, sweat running at the back of my neck. Parrots, like coloured devils, shrieked and spoke at turns, mocking me with their resounding "Who are you? Where do you come from?" They fluttered their wings and coda-like tails.

"Aren't they wonderful?" was my hostess's laughing, rapturous remark. They spun all around, infernal tropical dervishes. Their feathers made a whirlwind of colours.

As I stood dumbstruck, Mrs. B. observed me from the corner of her eye. I grimaced an acknowledging smile. Had I passed her test? It was only when we sat at the dining table with a view on her little garden that I observed her long green silk dress and the intricate golden hair pin that prevented her hair from flowing freely. She was not exactly beautiful, yet she was tall, lean, intriguing like an ancient Greek statue. Her grey eyes hypnotized me.

"Why do you keep three parrots in the conservatory?" I said with some boldness. She shrugged: "They keep me company." "But you can't have a real conversation with them." "Yet, they talk... Sometimes, silence is unbearable. Not even music will do."

We soon discovered we both loved classical music. Her stew was not bad either. She had even baked an almond cake. As midnight approached, I became increasingly nervous... Would she want me to stay for the night? Would I be up to her expectations? Did she have any?

She fidgeted with the brooch on her right shoulder. As soon as she stood up, she unclenched it in a wink, and her beautiful silk dress was soon at her feet. I was still sitting and stayed so. I felt my cheeks go hot with surprised excitement. Suddenly, I had no questions buzzing in my head: her full breasts and long thighs were enough to dispel all my fears. She took my hand, smiling, and I followed her.

Even if the morning after we had breakfast in front of the conservatory, and by then I called her Amy, in my mind she will always be Mrs. B. At the breakfast table, she sat in front of me with her hair held back in a careless bun, wrapped up in a brown silk gown.

Her fingers buttered the bread quickly. She was deft. Her fingers enticed me: I could imagine them flying swiftly on a piano keyboard. I was cheerful, in awe. I could have said I was in love, but she was distant, despite sitting in front of me.

She was in a hurry, she said. I gulped my American, swallowed my scone, gathered my scattered things, burning with desire. I tried to embrace her; she freed herself and gave me such a blank stare that I froze. She did not see anything at all. I walked away, while she petted her parrots.

She laughed; they laughed. They banded together against me. They were mocking me again: "Who are you? Where do you come from?" I stared at the floor. Their voices struck me like a slap.

I drove past the semidetached houses, a set of white teeth glaring on the lips of the grey morning.

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