Ten minutes after Darla leaves the Dulles Toll Road in Virginia for the 495 Capital Beltway on her way home from work it begins to snow. Big, feathery flakes grip the windshield of her Hyundai Santa Fe and hang on. It's not coming down too hard yet, but the forecast calls for a storm that could drop as much as two feet overnight. Darla thanks God it's Friday and she won't have to go out anywhere over the weekend.
Although the snow isn't coming down hard enough yet for her to turn on her wipers, traffic on the Beltway is starting to back up. God, she hates her commute! One drop of rain on the Beltway and there's guaranteed to be a multi-car pileup that will back up traffic for miles and take her hours to make it home. On days like this she misses her hometown in North Carolina. Millville was slower than molasses in winter but at least it hardly ever snowed.
On days like this she wishes she could afford to live in Herndon, Virginia, where she works. But the cost of housing there, in the Washington DC technology district, has always been ridiculous, and is even worse now with the cost of housing skyrocketing. The best she can afford is her two-bedroom apartment in Laurel, Maryland. It's an hour commute when traffic is moving steadily (which it hardly ever is), but she has to do what she has to do. At least living where she lives comes with a nice benefit.
Last night Vincent stopped by her apartment with bags of groceries clutched in his fists. Standing in her doorway looking tall, dark, and delicious, he'd told her that with the storm coming, by the time she got off work on Friday the stores would be cleaned out of anything decent to eat because people would shop as if they were preparing for an apocalypse. So now she has a couple nice ribeye steaks, some chicken breasts, a frozen pizza, a ton of sandwich stuff, and enough junk food to put a football team in a coma. Oh, and two bottles of wine. Thinking about the wine makes her smile. She knows it probably means Vincent doesn't intend for her to spend the weekend snowed in alone.
The radio disc jockey switches his broadcast over to the station meteorologist, who announces with something that sounds almost like glee that they can expect six inches of snow in the DC metropolitan area by 9:00pm, a foot by midnight, two feet by sunrise, and it's going to keep coming down through Sunday.
Just fucking great.
Well, at least she doesn't have to go anywhere. She has plenty of food, thanks to Vincent. The immediate issue is getting home. Already up ahead she sees the taillights of a zillion vehicles glow redder as drivers start riding their brakes. And it's coming down harder now; the individual feathery flakes are starting to stick together, blocking parts of her view. She clicks on her windshield wipers and tries to ignore the little quiver of panic between her heart and her belly. Driving in the snow sucks. Driving in the snow on the Beltway is hell.
Now the brake lights up ahead, glowing back at her like mocking evil red eyes, aren't moving. Darla takes her foot off the Hyundai's gas pedal and cruises forward for about thirty seconds before she needs to brake to a stop.
Shit.
She checks her rearview mirror. Through the snow starting to cover her rear window she observes that the headlights of the traffic behind her stretches back as far as she can see. She presses the rear window defogger button.
Shit.
Now she wishes she'd taken Vincent's advice and told her manager that because of the weather forecast and her commute she would work from home today. It's a nice benefit of her job as a technology salesperson that she can telework when necessary; can access the company sales database from home via their intranet and use the cellphone they provided her with so she can contact her clients. But lately she doesn't like working from home. It is too distracting, knowing Vincent lives right across the breezeway of her three-story apartment building, and knowing he's self-employed and works from home, and knowing that if she stays home, rather than focusing on work, she will spend the day fighting the temptation to go visit him in his apartment, or fighting the temptation to ask him to come to her. Odds were if she'd stayed home she wouldn't get much work done, and she'd probably interrupt his work too.
The traffic ahead of her creeps a few feet forward and stops again. In her rearview mirror the headlights of the vehicles behind her are dimmed by the thickening snow. The meteorologist advises listeners that over the next forty-eight hours, if at all possible people in the listening area should stay home.
She should have listened to Vincent and stayed home.
Since she's not moving, Darla adjusts her rearview mirror and takes a look at herself. She brushes a lock of her pixie cut auburn hair away from her brow. Her hazel eyes reflect her anxiety. Part of her is glad she's not moving in this weather. Another part of her wishes she were already home. Or at Vincent's place.
Okay, definitely at Vincent's place.
Last night after he'd put the bags of groceries he'd bought her on her kitchen counter, she'd said, "How much do I owe you?"
"We're good," he'd said. "With your commute I knew you wouldn't have time to shop."
"I feel like I should pay you something," she'd said, because his thoughtfulness had put her in the mood. Well, put her more in the mood, because she was almost always in the mood. "So name your price." She'd given him a little smile to let him see the deeper meaning in her offer. Okay, actually, she hadn't been able to not smile.
He'd smiled his handsome smile back at her and said, "Take your clothes off. Everything."
Sitting behind the wheel of her Hyundai Santa Fe, Darla feels another quiver, this time not between her heart and her belly, but between her legs.
In the almost three months since she and Vincent have been having sex, she has only recently been comfortable enough with him to be completely naked. Not naked during sex; that was easy, but naked walking around his apartment or hers when they weren't having sex. She has always been self-conscious about her body. She isn't really overweight, but she has never had a figure that is the standard for American feminine beauty. Her mother used to say she was pleasingly plump, which had always felt like a backhanded insult.
Vincent says she's voluptuous. He told her one time that she reminded him of the women created by an artist named Richard Corben. He showed her some of Corben's work, his illustrations of women. They were almost all well-endowed, with what Darla's crazy Uncle Jack called tig 'ol biddies, and plump booties. Vincent told her that besides those attributes, she has killer legs made for high heels. Vincent makes her feel good about her body. She has learned not to mind too much being naked for him, especially since her being naked around him usually means they're going to have some good sex. Well, with him it's always been good.
Last night after she got undressed for him to thank him for the groceries, he'd taken her by the hand and walked her out of her galley kitchen into her little dining area. He'd bent her over her dinette table, opened his pants and taken her from behind, first her pussy, then her ass. Vincent isn't the biggest guy she's ever been with, not in length, but he's plenty big, and he's the perfect mix of length and thickness. More important, he knows how to use what he's working with. Last night was delicious. When he was done with her she'd been so weak he'd had to help her to her sofa. Weak and contented.
Darla thinks it would be easy to become more than neighbors with benefits with Vincent. Besides being good in bed (or wherever), he's a nice guy, maybe the nicest guy she's ever been involved with. But she doesn't want to push him. His divorce was finalized just over six months ago. She's willing to give him time. It's not like he's far away from her, living just across the breezeway and one door down.
There are four apartments on each of the three floors of the apartment buildings in their complex. Darla has lived in her third-floor apartment for four years. Vincent moved into his apartment about a year ago. In the time she has lived in her place, residents--usually college students--have come and gone in the other two apartments on the third floor. Right now the other two apartments are empty.
Like Richard Corben, the guy who draws voluptuous women, Vincent is an artist. He's self-employed and makes a living selling prints of his work online. Since they transitioned from friendly neighbors to neighbors with benefits, Darla has spent most of her time when she's home alone trying not to bug Vincent to death about hanging out in her place or his so he can work. She thinks she could be perfectly happy if they lived in the same apartment. Happier than she is living across the breezeway from him. But she's willing to give him time, to wait and see what happens beyond the good sex.
Traffic on the Beltway moves forward about one car length and stops again. Darla has to put her wipers on high speed to beat off the snow, which is now falling angrily and staring to cling to the side windows. She turns the defroster fan on high.
There are three lanes in this part of the Beltway. She's in the middle lane. Though there are dozens of vehicles around her, maybe hundreds, she feels isolated in the storm.
She's a little nervous.
She fishes her phone out of the cupholder and texts Vincent:
Darla: You busy?
In less than a minute he responds:
Vincent: Nah. Just finishing up. Where are you?
Darla: Stuck on the Beltway, near the Georgia Ave exit. It's snowing pretty hard already.
Vincent: You shouldn't be texting and driving.
His concern makes her smile. He's a nice guy. Really nice. She could do a lot worse for a neighbor living across the breezeway from her. She could do a zillion times worse when it comes to a lover.
She feels that quiver again, the one between her legs. Because she's communicating with Vincent the sensation is stronger.
Darla: Want me to call?
Vincent: Only if it's safe.
The traffic moves forward another few feet. When it stops she presses the "call" icon on her phone's display.
Vincent answers with, "Hey, sexy baby."
At the sound of his voice the quivering between her legs becomes a throb. The crotch of her thong panties dampens. She squirms in the driver's seat.
"Hey," she breathes.
"How bad is it on the Beltway?"
"Terrible. Traffic's not even moving. It's starting to come down hard." Though she's nervous, talking to Vincent makes her feel better.
"I wish you'd worked from home today."
"Me too now. I should've listened to you."
"Are you worried?"
"I feel better talking to you. It'll keep me distracted." Vincent is quiet for a few moments, long enough for her to ask, "Still there?"
