The small house in Izmir's slum was filled with the aroma of Esma's cooking, a welcome respite from the grime and poverty that lingered outside. Esma, a 55-year-old Turkish widow, moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, her hands deftly chopping vegetables and stirring sauces.
At the table, Murat, her 25-year-old son, was engrossed in reading a newspaper. He was a handsome young man, with his mother's dark eyes and chiseled jawline. His black hair was disheveled, and there was a hint of stubble on his chin. He was dressed in worn-out jeans and a faded t-shirt, his attire a testament to his lack of interest in material possessions.
Esma accidentally dropped a spoon, bending over to pick it up. As she did, her conservative dress rode up, giving Murat a glimpse of her plain granny underwear. Murat couldn't help but let out a playful insult. "Mother, really? Those are the most unsexiest pair of underwear I've ever seen."
Esma's face turned beet red as she quickly picked up the spoon and placed it back in the sink. She muttered "tövbe tövbe" under her breath, a Turkish phrase used to express regret or shame.
Esma brought the food to the table, sitting across from Murat. Murat started making explicit, sexual comments, causing Esma to become shy and avoid eye contact. "Mother, you're looking very attractive today," he said, his voice dripping with innuendo.
Esma tried to change the subject, asking Murat about his job, but Murat insisted on making lewd comments. "Mother, you have no idea what I have to deal with at work. It's enough to give a man... urges," he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Esma, in an attempt to lighten the mood, joked about Murat's large ego and "big" responsibilities at work. "Oh, please, Murat. You think you're the only one with big responsibilities. I have to cook, clean, and take care of this entire house. I'd say that's a pretty big responsibility too," she said, a smile playing on her lips.
Murat, not missing a beat, replied with a suggestive comment about his "big" size in other areas. "Mother, you have no idea what I'm talking about. But maybe one day, you'll find out," he said, his voice low and sultry.
Esma rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself, as she served Murat more food. Murat, still making suggestive comments, reached over to touch Esma's hand. Esma pulled away, but not before Murat saw the blush on her face.
Esma, trying to keep things light, made a playful insult about Murat's lack of housework skills. "Murat, if you spent as much time cleaning this house as you do making suggestive comments, maybe I wouldn't have to do everything myself," she said, her voice teasing.
Murat, taking the opportunity, suggested that Esma could "punish" him for his lack of cleaning skills. "Mother, how about you punish me for not cleaning? I'm sure you could think of something... creative," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Esma, playing along, threatened to make him do all the housework for a week. "Oh, Murat. I'll have to think about it. But I can guarantee you, it won't be pleasant," she said, her voice full of mock threat.
Murat, undeterred, suggested a "different" form of punishment. "Mother, how about a different kind of punishment? One that involves... physical labor," he said, his voice low and suggestive.
Esma, trying to keep things from escalating, stood up to clear the table. Murat, not taking the hint, followed Esma into the kitchen, making more explicit comments.
Esma's face was flushed, and her heart was racing. She couldn't believe what was happening. She was a 55-year-old widow, and her son was making suggestive comments towards her. She knew she should stop him, but there was a part of her that was intrigued. She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on clearing the table.
Murat continued to make explicit comments, his voice low and seductive. Esma tried to ignore him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. She felt a strange mixture of shame, excitement, and confusion. She didn't know what to do.
End of Chapter One.
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