The Start

The warm evening air of Milan still carried the sound of laughter and conversation as the university square slowly emptied. She walked gracefully down the steps of the Faculty, her short dark dress tailored perfectly to her figure, complemented by a blazer she had draped casually over her shoulders. Her suede high heels clicked softly against the stone pavement, a quiet rhythm in contrast to the students’ louder farewells.

She was still thinking about the cocktail reception—faces of proud graduates, toasts of prosecco, and the subtle joy of seeing her students close one chapter of their lives. Particularly, she kept recalling one student—tall, confident, intellectually curious, and undeniably handsome. She had noticed him across the room more than once.

As she turned onto the square, there he was again. He stood near the bus stop, hands in his pockets, wearing a slightly crooked tie, his graduation folder tucked under his arm.

She paused, adjusted the strap of her small clutch bag, and approached him with a smile.

“Waiting for the bus?” she asked in her polished, warm tone.

He straightened up, a little surprised to see his professor in the square. “Yes,” he answered with a shy smile, eyes flickering for a moment toward her elegant heels before meeting hers again.

“Congratulations again on your master’s. You’ve worked hard for it. I hope you’ll have a wonderful summer.”

“Thank you, professor,” he said, sincerity evident in his voice.

She nodded slightly, then walked a few steps to her little pastel-blue Fiat 500 parked at the far end of the lot. She had bought it only a few weeks ago, nostalgic in spirit and proud in appearance, though it was nothing like the comfortable modern cars most people drove. It was her first car, and it barely forgave her newness as a driver.

Sliding into the small seat, she set down her bag and adjusted the hem of her dress discreetly before reaching forward. The dashboard, simple and aged, smelled faintly of oil and old leather. She inserted the small, worn ignition key and, with a soft sigh, pulled out the choke lever. Let’s hope… she thought, glancing quickly toward the bus stop where she could still see the student waiting.

She pulled the starting lever with her right hand. The little car gave a reluctant whine, coughing as if waking from heavy sleep. Nothing. She tried again—another grinding protest from the starter, but still silence afterward. A faint flush rose to her cheeks.

On the third try, the engine sputtered once—an irregular pop-pop-pop—before dying with a defeated sigh. She pressed her lips together, keeping her composure, though her fingers tightened slightly around the wooden gearshift knob.

By the fifth attempt, she exhaled slowly, whispering under her breath in Italian, “Dai, forza…” The Fiat coughed, misfired, and then fell silent again.

She noticed movement—the graduate had taken a few hesitant steps toward her. He stopped, unsure if he should intrude, then came closer with a polite tilt of his head.

“Professor, do you… need help?” His tone was careful, aware this might not exactly be his place.

She half-laughed, both embarrassed and amused. “I wish I knew what help to ask for. Do you know anything about these old little cars?”

He shook his head, sheepish. “Not really. I don’t even have a license.”

She smiled despite the moment, her eyes lighting up. “Then we are two beginners.”

Returning her focus, she tried again, this time pumping the accelerator gently while balancing the choke. The Fiat responded with a reluctant growl, an irregular shaking, and just at the moment she feared it would die once more—it suddenly caught. The tiny two-cylinder engine roared to life, sputtering unevenly but finally holding.

She let out a small victory laugh, more musical than she intended. The graduate grinned widely, clapping his hands together once, as if applauding her stubborn little car.

She leaned toward the window. “Well, I suppose tonight I am luckier than this morning.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes meeting his. “Do you want a ride? Where do you live?”

He hesitated—almost as though it felt too forward—but then admitted, “In Pavia. Not far from here.”

Her face brightened. “Perfect. I’m going there, too.”

He opened the tiny passenger door and slid carefully inside, folding his tall frame into the compact seat. She adjusted the mirror, checked her heels against the pedals, and pulled gently onto the quiet Milanese street. The Fiat rattled, coughed, and bounced, but with the summer night breeze flowing through the rolled-open windows and her laughter filling the cabin, it suddenly felt like the start of a charming adventure neither of them would ever forget.

The Ride

The pastel-blue Fiat rattled over the cobblestones of Piazza Leonardo da Vinci, its headlights glowing faintly in the warm Milanese night. Inside the tiny cabin, the air was thick with the scent of summer—warm asphalt, blooming jasmine, and her delicate perfume, a subtle blend of vanilla and cedarwood.

The student sat slightly turned toward her, knees almost brushing hers in the cramped passenger seat. He was still a little nervous, but there was no denying the unexpected thrill of being here: with her, his professor, elegantly dressed, her bare thighs catching glimpses of the streetlights as the hem of her short dress rode up on the seat. She gripped the steering wheel firmly, her suede heels delicately balancing throttle and clutch, her movements precise but full of restrained energy.

“You see,” she said with a half-smile, eyes on the narrow road ahead, “we have survived the first test: getting started.”

He chuckled, leaning slightly closer, his voice low. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure we would make it off the square. But I had faith in you, professor.”

“Faith?” She glanced at him briefly, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Good. You’ll need that tonight with this car.”

The Fiat coughed again as if to prove her point, jerking in protest. She bit her lip lightly, nudged the throttle, and the car stuttered forward with a surge. The student laughed, and she couldn’t help but laugh too, the sound soft and confident yet tinged with something intimate.

“Tell me,” she asked after a moment, her voice smooth, “how does it feel—finally done with your studies?”

He shifted slightly, his leg brushing against hers by accident. He didn’t move away. “Strange. A little empty, but also… exciting. Like the start of something unknown.”

Her lips curved as she changed gears, the heel of her pump pressing firmly. “The unknown can be exciting,” she murmured, her tone carrying a subtle double meaning.

For a few minutes, they drove in silence, the only sounds the faint roar of the tiny engine and the soft squeak of leather from her seat as she shifted. Streetlights cast amber glows over her legs, catching the curve of her thigh each time her hem shifted higher when she pressed the clutch. He tried not to stare, but his eyes betrayed him now and then. She noticed, but said nothing—only allowed herself the faint satisfaction of his silent admiration.

Suddenly, the car coughed again, more violently this time, and stalled at a small intersection just outside the city. She cursed softly under her breath in Italian, more sensual than angry. “Not now…” she whispered, turning the key again. The engine whined, clicked, then failed.

He leaned closer, watching her hands move quickly—one holding the wheel, the other pulling gently at the choke lever. Beads of sweat glinted faintly at her temple from the warm air. She exhaled, turned the ignition again, and the Fiat spluttered fiercely before dying with a shudder.

He hesitated, then offered with a teasing smile, “Maybe it just needs… encouragement. Like us, sometimes.”

She turned her head slowly toward him, a sly smile on her lips. “Encouragement? What would you suggest?”

Their eyes lingered on each other longer this time. His answer almost caught in his throat, but he managed, “Well… maybe a softer touch.”

She smirked, returned her focus to the wheel, and tried again. The Fiat roared back weakly, then finally caught with a stubborn rhythm, as if obeying her command. She laughed under her breath, a rich, throaty sound. “See? Even this old car knows when not to refuse me.”

The rest of the drive stretched into a kind of suspended intimacy. They left the city behind, cruising along narrower country roads. The wind through the rolled-down window tangled strands of her dark hair, which brushed lightly against her cheek and neckline. He resisted the urge to reach out, though the thought lingered.

At one point, the road dipped, and the Fiat sputtered again, jerking enough that her hand instinctively brushed against his arm as she steadied herself. She left it there a fraction too long before gripping the wheel again. Neither of them commented on it.

As they approached the lights of Pavia, the silence between them had changed. It no longer felt like the quiet of a student and teacher, but rather of a man and woman—with a fragile tension that carried questions neither were yet ready to speak aloud.

She slowed the car as they neared a roundabout. Without looking at him, she asked softly, “Your stop is close, isn’t it?”

He nodded, but after a heartbeat, he whispered, “I almost wish it wasn’t.”

Her lips curved slowly, a knowing smile. She pressed the accelerator, her heel sliding firmly onto the pedal. “Then perhaps the car will stall again… and give us more time.”

Let me know what you think of it!

Cheers,

Stalling