I remember the day very well.
It was Saturday, 23 June 2018 and I woke up not to the sounds of the happy, early summer birds tweeting but to the whirr of a power drill drowning them out. It was 8:05 and I glanced at the clean, undisturbed white sheets to the left to remind me that Olaf was away on work for another eleven days.
So, who was that working?
I had to think to recall through my foggy, gin and tonic soaked brain that it must be Brando, our regular handyman repairing our fence. Our wooden seven-foot privacy structure that bordered our pool and back yard barbecue area had been blown over the other day by a frightful storm.
I dragged myself out of bed to walk up to the southern windows to see what was going on. It wasn't Brando but a young blond-haired man on a short ladder working on one of the three posts that needed attention to put the fence right. Who the heck was that? Beyond, in the yard dirt road, I recognized Brandon's battered old red truck.
I decided go find out. The fence was about sixty yards away from my bedroom window and it wasn't a property border structure but was simply something to isolate our outdoor parties from god-knows-who from the western side. Perhaps Olaf was worried about the occasional imaginary voyeur from Walt Neuen Memorial Horse Park. We lived in the capital city of Bismarck in North Dakota and acquired this rather pristine piece of land south of London Avenue.
I threw a pink satin gown over my night shirt and slipped on my garden shoes and ran down the stairs, across the dining area, the kitchen and the sunroom before I got to my backyard. Wafer, our Golden Retriever, followed me. The man heard the doors slide and turned with a smile.
"Good morning, Mrs. Armanson."
"Good morning. I was expecting Brando."
"Oh, uncle Brando had another project and he called me last night to fill in. I came early, at six-thirty so that I can finish and go for my class at six"
He had a delightful smile with dimples which lit up his ruggedly handsome face that was topped by an intentionally unruly blonde mop. His blue eyes danced with youthful energy under thick regular eyebrows. He had thin lips that guarded a set of regular teeth above his sharp chin. He also had those fashionably trimmed facial embellishments that his generation wore. He suddenly looked awkwardly familiar but I just couldn't place his awesome countenance and I didn't ask him to help. He must have been in his early twenties and was about six-feet tall and was wearing a sleeveless cream work shirt and denim jeans. He was gorgeous to look at.
I wondered why I immediately felt a sort of a connection to this unknown youth.
"OK. So, you're Brandon's nephew?"
"Yes. Keith. Glad to meet you ma'am."
"Marylin is the name. My friends call me Marlie" Wow! I considered him a friend in thirty seconds!
We shook hands and his boyish wiriness was impactful.
"So, you hope to finish this today?"
"Yes, I have all that I need in the truck and I should be able to. Also, uncle wanted me to let you know that he couldn't come as stuff happened at night."
"Oh, that's fine. Brando has been our man and anyone he recommends is fine too." I turned to go.
"Oh, ma'am eh... Marlie, these two posts need replacement and that would cost a bit more as I need to get new ones in and secure them with concrete."
"Which ones?"
He showed me to the post at the farthest end of the patio area and he pointed to the base of the post held in black metal brackets in a concrete base that had split. I bent to take a closer look and realized that what Keith was saying was true and I looked up to agree when I noticed he was checking out my cleavage but looked away, though not quite quick enough.
What made it worse was his response: "Your gown is beautiful." He stuttered. It was the most inappropriate observation and the poorest get out clause I had ever heard.
I felt naked with nothing under my gown and night shirt. He was blushing and awkward and I had to make him comfortable.
"Thank you. It's Indonesian, the gown." I picked myself up. "Which other post is split?"
"Here, the next." He pointed to the other which looked superficially OK. I was about to bend again and I realized the exposure that I had already provided and decided to squat to inspect. The moment I did, I noticed the slight crack that sat camouflaged in the wood grain. I also realized with horror that my night shirt was riding up and I wasn't wearing panties. I clamped my thighs shut in a flash and stood up. I wasn't sure I had provided another show.
He revealed no evidence of it.
"OK, Keith. Do what you have to do and let me know if you need anything. Do you have a cell phone?"
"Yes, I do. I'll call you. Uncle Brandon gave me your number."
I turned back to go in and when walking back, I realized that my swaying hips were more pronounced. Obviously, I was self-conscious. My step quickened to end the torment of my awareness.
Back in my bedroom I prepared to indulge in the Saturday morning luxury of a lazy and elaborate bath. I filled the tub dropped the usual pods of fragrances and bubbles, stripped and slipped into the warmness.
Olaf and I had designed our 6,650 square foot home in great detail and one of the central themes of our planning was to give the best vantage point and space to our bedroom. It was a floor and a half above the rest of house and occupied most of the second floor space. There was a slanted light sensitive eight by six foot glass roof above our bed that had an electrically operated sun shield. Three sides of the bedroom except a small six-foot segment over the bedstead was one way glass. The east end accommodated the double door that led to the hall way and stairs but the rest was consumed by a walk-in closet and towards the south was our specially designed bathroom which also had six-foot one-way glass overlooking out to our back yard. The west side accommodated a spacious private balcony.
The bath was against the glass and so was the shower stall. The opposite wall was alongside the double wash basin counter and the commode with bidet.
It was when I was basking in the glorious fragrances in the free standing large tub, that I viewed the scene below. Keith was working hard and by the looks of his urgency and quickness, he was keen to make it for his class in the evening. I admired his efficiency of task and economy of movement. This kid looked talented, motivated and smart. He already had one of the three segments of the fence fixed.
Now, wouldn't he have loved to see me like this? The rather curious scenario where I was completely nude and looking at him working down there came at me quite forcefully. He looked down my gown and that was normal and wouldn't have even cared a decade ago. This was happening to me after quite a while and hence the little, wayward thrill.
And it surprised me!
I was forty-four and married for twenty years to Oleifr Armanson, son of immigrants from Iceland. He was three when he came to the USA and was essentially all American. The family were devout Christians and members of my father, Rev. Ted Glamsworth's Baptiste church and that's where we met.
I was a nurse and after many years in the front-line giving care in a busy surgical ward and gaining a hard-earned masters' degree, the powers that be at the Sherbrook Group of Hospitals, decided that I could be promoted to a charge nurse and then on to a nursing manager after I cracked another masters in healthcare management. I absorbed this success with some conscious humility and a very careful demeanor that accepted, appreciated and respected the rank and file. The result was that I was much loved and with Olaf's property management and real estate business flying high I was simultaneously rewarded with handsome remuneration that made us quite comfortable.
Our nineteen-year-old was in university studying political science. She was happy too in what she was doing and we had the means to support her dreams.
Olaf and I lived a normal life with irregular visits to church. He still held strong spiritual beliefs that drove his day to day life and, according to him, his enormous financial success in recent years. Our individual spirituality was the reason we lived rather quiet lives attracting little attention. The cul-de-sac that cradles our home was a great help. I wouldn't call us anywhere near being radical but morality was very strongly adhered to, as what was taught in the Bible. Therefore, we were quite faithful spouses to each other. Some may have even found us boring but that was to be expected.
I had a continual battle within myself as I attempted to draw the line between the haughtiness and arrogance of the newly rich and the justifiable pride in our hard earned achievements. Olaf constantly reminded me to turn it down and I did when the insight was there.
Now this rather weird episode out of the wilderness was bizarre for me. It has been years since someone looked at me like this boy did. What was more striking was that simultaneously I felt I was missing intimacy.
Why?
OK, I wouldn't call it attraction as I knew him not but a funny feeling of secret awareness of my sexual feelings engulfed me. I was certain I wanted to dissociate my desire for sex since Olaf left, from this attractive young man in my yard. There was no need, in retrospect to feel guilt though, as I forcibly delinked the two. Some describe these as the naughty forties or as menopausal madness. Though I would swear in the past that this was an imagination of some middle-aged men, I was now ascribing my rather promiscuous thoughts to this phenomenon.
Olaf and I had a long session of sex on Wednesday, the night before he left. We had a candle light dinner with the best red wine and he had peeled my nightie off in the dining room before we walked up the stairs to the bedroom. He took his shirt off as well and I was only in my panties. Alexa was asked to play soft sweet music and the Harman Kardon system brought the melodies with an added clarity to our ears and a certain calmness to the milieu.
Olaf was a tough looking man. He was forty-six. He rarely went to the gym in recent months but his muscle mass hadn't decreased and at just under six feet, he looked shorter than he was. I was a good four inches shorter and people said I matched him for good looks. A few years ago, two individuals, one a patient and the other a young female colleague, said I looked like Natalie Portman! When I had told this to Olaf, he had this to say: "I guess you have a fairly close facial resemblance. But your boobs are much bigger and your ass sexier."
"You've seen Natalie Portman nude?" I teased.
"No, but it's obvious she's not that curvy!"
"You'd prefer to make love to her instead." That jealous bitch in me.
