Every week or two, when her husband was away on business, I'd go visit her. They had a big house on the lake. Four car garage.
He was in finance. Some kind of global banker.
She was...well she was gorgeous. A painter. Nine years his junior.
I loved to slowly run my tongue up the inside of her thighs. To gently kiss her nipples. The way she arched her back when we made love drove me crazy.
We had met by chance at a downtown bar. She was going to catch up with friends. She brought me home instead.
She told me that it wasn't that her husband was a bad man, she was just bored.
I didn't care.
I was enthralled by her.
Or did I care? Truth be told, it wasn't right what we were doing. Yet I couldn't have stopped myself even had I wanted to.
I lived all the way across town from her, and when she could see me I would drive in frenzied anticipation down the expressway.
It was always night time. He would have just left.
One January night she called me and said that he was gone. It was unusually cold. I tried for almost half-an-hour but the engine simply would not take.
I should have stayed. Fuck, I really should have always stayed.
But I called a taxi and climbed aboard one of those monstrous and ugly double-decker commuter trains that criss-cross the metropolis.
As we pulled out of Main Station the wind picked up and the snow began. It was a near white-out. We sped through the city core and I couldn't see a thing.
But we grew closer to her stop, pulling into Mimico, and it all began to die down.
When the wind finally stilled for a moment the snow just hung there...like a silvery screen obscuring the outside world.
A physical manifestation of a backdrop pregnant with ambiguity.