Chapter 1: Her Perspective

“Oh, how I hate winter, and it is only just beginning,” I groaned as I pulled away from the light when it turned green.

I continued to slowly guide my car along the snow-covered street at a snail’s pace compared to what would normally be seen on this road. It was only 6:15 PM, but the inclement weather meant it was already dark. Luckily, much of the commuters throughout the city had taken the mayor’s warning and left their offices at lunchtime to finish their day “WFH” – working from home. I was never convinced anyone that was WFH was actually working. In fact, I considered anyone who tried to work from home for more than an hour or two a week a real slacker.

The relatively light traffic did make the commute safer, but not faster. The storm started around 3:00, and by the time I got out of the office over a foot of snow had been deposited and the snow plows were having a hard time keeping the roads passable. The most recent weather report I saw predicted at least another twelve to eighteen inches of snowfall before morning.

“Damn, I really hate winter,” I again muttered.

What should have been a 25 minute commute took almost 60 minutes. I realized as I made the final turn onto my street that my hands had tensed around the wheel and I was hunched forward over the steering wheel. I silently chided myself. I grew up in Sudbury, Ontario and have been driving on snow for almost 20 years. Even though I hated the snow, this was not a big deal.

I opened the garage door, and because my husband was away with the kids, I had both bays free. I pulled directly into the middle of the cavernous space, put the car in park, and clicked the button to close the garage door. Finally, home at last.

Exiting the car I took a few steps toward the door, fully intending to leave my briefcase and laptop bag in the car. But then I realized that the storm was probably going to force me to work from the home office for the next few days. I groaned, slowly spun myself back toward the car, and clicked the trunk release to get my bags.

I got the door to the house unlocked, dropped my bags, keyed in the security code, and exhaled deeply as I leaned back against the door. I was in the small anteroom between the garage and the laundry. Some of our friends called it the mudroom. Whatever it was called, it was where we hung our winter coats and stashed our wet galoshes during bad weather. It got used a lot, but tonight I was not wearing a coat or rain boots. My typical commute was from our home garage to the office parking garage, and then through a heated private access tunnel to my office building. I was only exposed to the elements for a brief time so I usually opted to forgo the heavy coats and shoes that littered the floor.

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. The house was so still with the family out of town. My husband, Jimmy, had a client in the same town as his parents, and when he had to make a sales call he would take the kids to visit their grandparents. That meant I had the house to myself for up to a week. This trip was supposed to be only three days, but there was no way they would make it back before the weekend if the weather predictions were accurate.

With my eyes still closed, I shrugged out of my suit coat and took a few steps toward the laundry. I grabbed a hanger and draped the coat over it. Taking advantage of the empty house, I then unbuttoned my skirt and gracefully stepped out of it before adding it to the hanger. The buttons on my blouse were quickly undone and it was thrown directly into the washing machine. My bra attached in the front so a flick of the wrist and a shrug of my shoulders and it joined the blouse. I left my bags in the anteroom as I headed to the kitchen in nothing but a pair of sheer nylons and high heels.

As I walked down the hallway past the formal dining room I glanced at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror the contractor insisted we upgrade to in order to make the room seem larger. I paused, took a step back to turn on the overhead light, and studied myself more closely. At 33, and a mother of two, it was a constant struggle to keep my body in shape, especially since exercise and diet could only combat a portion of what mother nature considered normal as we age.

I stand five-foot-four in bare feet with dark hair to just below my shoulders that had already started to “lighten.” I would not concede that I was getting gray hairs. My breasts were a smallish c-cup that were Exhibit A in the fight against mother nature. I thought they were still perky, but the slightest sag had started to become more apparent. The areolas were a dark pink and my nipples were proudly at attention in the cool house. Just below my breasts was a well-toned stomach that I was intent on keeping fit with my exercise regimen. My hips flared more than I liked and were my least favorite part of my body. Through my nylons I could see that my pubis was trimmed into a small patch that my husband preferred. As I slowly turned in a circle I could see that my ass was still my best asset. Taut with just enough curvature. While wearing heels my legs were a very close second to my ass for my favorite feature. As I completed my turn I saw that the red polish I had put on my toenails for my husband’s last night in town was still intact.

I turned off the light and headed into the kitchen where I slid a wineglass off the rack and pulled out a new bottle of Cabernet. Jimmy thought the electric corkscrew that our neighbors gave us was an abomination, but it did short work opening the bottle. My glass was quickly filled and I was headed upstairs.

The master bedroom was enormous. The high ceiling, French doors, and accent lighting were again all upgrades the contractor insisted we needed to differentiate our house from the others in the neighborhood. While we argued the cost and merits of such an extravagance, Jimmy and I both thought they added a certain “je ne sais quoi” to the room, even if they were not worth the additional cost. The master bathroom, however, was loaded with every upgrade that took no argument.