"And a good morning to you, Kate," I scoff at my reflection. Tea kettle set to boil? Check. Laptop booting up? Check. Exactly twelve pencils sharpened and aligned to the left? Check. I don't even use them; I sharpen them solely for their earthy scent, bringing to mind of my better times.
I used to be a married woman, then again I used to be a lot of things: younger, prettier, thinner, all elements of the external distorted by time. Oh whatever...I'm alive, so that's something, isn't it?
I left my bedroom window open a crack last night, so as to allow me to listen in on the coyote's laments. I live alone in my ramshackle A frame; my one and a half story author's refuge settled into the North Saskatchewan river banks. I do love it here and feel loved in return.
Everything is about sensing nature's brutal honesty. The wildlife here lives by a code of relentless need and vital struggle, shrouded by a postcard's worth of austere beauty. Scatterings of stark white bones and pale flutterings of fur mark life's progress. I'm no different; someday I'll be marked as well.
I shuffle through last night's snowfall to sweep my balcony as I hum along with the glassy rattlings of the tree tops all around. Each blackened, naked rapier arouses terror in my heart. I exhale a giddy cloud of frost to mingle with the last snow rainbow shivering from my broom. The fresh air thrills me.
My meditation is broken by the unmistakable two cycle snarl of a snowmobile faltering below. I strain to see, hearing youthful cursings of the unfaithful machine. Rump-Up-Up, Rupp-up-up. "Forget it young feller, it ain't starting anytime soon," I sigh, closing the door behind me. I've seen a good part of what life has to offer in my forty three years, enabling me to predict these things with some accuracy.
I hurriedly smear a shrunken bar of deodorant across my underarms before donning my housecoat. It's not that I neglect hygiene, far from it; more like I've grown to love my body's natural scent. Others might not share my enthusiasm for this marking my territory. Mostly, I blame the coyotes.
I watch fascinated as he trudges into view, wearing a navy blue snowsuit, topped by a metal-flake helmet. I pretend, for a moment, that an alien is coming to ravage me. Living alone may have warped my mind, I suppose.
He knocks; I trip down two steps at once, calling for a deft jarring of my heels, trading certain pain for a tumble down the stairs. He knocks again. I stand for an instant with a curious sense of uncertainty. I let him into my home.
He's wild-eyed in striding past me, deflecting the door with his elbow. "Damn that thing!" He hurls his mitts, then his helmet. It bounces and spins around the corner, as if to escape his rage. I'm breathlessly aroused by this passionate display and by the distinct chill flooding from his snowsuit. The fragrance of virile man-sweat mixed with exhaust fumes and the ozone of the outdoors causes me to bristle. My senses awaken to visceral desire.
"Hey! Take it easy on the floor boards," I snap, backing away while shaking my head. I feel silly like a schoolgirl, compelled to adjust my hair and posture to his liking. I stop; my smile fades. He's looking at me.
"Sorry. So sorry." His eyes flash with the bluest sincerity as he scuttles after his helmet. I watch him pat the dent in the floorboard as if to repair. I make a move to close the door and am met by a gust of wind. His eyes sweep up past my feet, rising to pause on the space between my legs. He blushes. I blush as well on discovery of my splayed housecoat.
He caught an eyeful of my shapely legs, snug inside hand knitted, striped woolen thigh- high stockings. My taut, white mare's thigh flesh blooms above my leggings and below my uptight lace panties. I turn my head, fumbling with my waist belt, wishing to reset the scene. Now, I am the regretful one.
"Sorry," I stammer, smoothing my robe. "I don't get many visitors."
"It's all good. I didn't see anything." He shuts his eyes, adding, "I don't mean__"
"I know," I interrupt. "I know; let's not...well, let's not...you know." A writer should do better.
He stands upright, rising above the awkward exchange. We turn as one, gratefully surprised by the tea kettle's whistle. "I'll be right back." I climb the stairs, self consciously securing my housecoat's sides.
On my return, I find he has made himself at home. After sloughing off his snowsuit, he pokes at the fireplace embers of last night's fire. I stand still, remembering my husband's outrage over discovering the newly installed fireplace. I thought it would be a romantic thing; instead, he scolded me for having it put in place behind his back. He stormed from the house, and out of my life, never to be seen again. The thin ice of the river claimed his fuming body, widowing me in the process. Oh well, live and learn.
"Oh yes, a fire would be just the thing," I offer. He backs away, sullen and shy. I light the kindling with insolent efficiency as he looks on.
Presuming him to prefer hot chocolate over tea, I set us a modest table. "So engine trouble, eh?" I say musically, adopting a motherly tone to commiserate in his troubles.
"Yeah, I guess. Could be wet spark plugs, maybe," he says, fishing his cell phone from his damp shirt pocket. His indifference excites me. I tug at my panties' waistband, shivering at the silky pressure cupping my heated sex mound. He glances over at me from above his cell phone, as alerted by my pleasure. I sit with my swollen nipples hidden from his bright, young eyes.
"Ah! This damn phone! Dead battery." He scans the place, asking, "Got a charger?" His doubt is vaguely insulting.
"No, but you can plug into my laptop." I hiccup, cringing at the double entendre. I climb back upstairs for my computer, blushing profusely. Taking advantage of my bedroom's privacy, I can't resist swishing my cool fingertips around my neglected clitoris. A delicious warmth spreads through my abdomen. I imagine clasping my hands amid his tight blonde curls as he tastes my pussy for the first time.
The image of his tender, ready but unsure cock makes my knees go weak. I could come so easily now. I picture me sucking on his hard inches. "Ah!" I gasp, suppressing my passion.
"What?" he calls.
"Ah, I've got it!" I call back, fingers frozen in place.
"Cool..." he trails off. I resolve to finish later. A spray of cologne hides my pussy's wanting scent. I gather my breasts into a bra before heading back downstairs, computer in hand.
We search for a connecting cord to join his phone to my USB jack. This done, we wait. "Hey, why don't I just use your phone? I don't think it's long distance or anything," suggests Allen.
"You know, I don't even have a phone here. I don't even think we have cell service this far from town," I tell him, apologetically.
He raises his eyebrows, saying, "Well that's just great." He blows the marshmallow foam from his coffee mug, coating his upper lip.
"Hey, you look good with a mustache," I laugh, forgetting his irksome situation. He is not amused. As a distracting consolation, I swing my legs onto the extra chair nearby, allowing him to gaze at my crossed, thick lady legs flexing within tight, woolen wraps. I smile, arching my back, stretching and yawning. I pretend to be unaware of my robe's sensual parting. I sneak a peek to gauge his reaction. His eyes play across my legs; he leans forward.
"Where did you get those things, anyway?" he coughs, fully aware of my teasing intentions.
