Walter and I were stranded at the airport for nearly six hours, snowed in and forced to make small talk while waiting for clearance to leave for our vacation to Bora Bora. My luggage had already been stowed, elsewise I'd have simply taken my rabbit muff and snuggled against the pillow that is my husband and had a bit of a catnap. But no. I had to make do with an extra pair of hose that I'd slipped into my coat pocket, which I stuffed with copious amounts of Kleenex to soften the resting of my head on Walter's shoulder. We talked of the sun and surf that would be awaiting us soon, and I dreamed of a certain summer's day of my youth, an afternoon of chasing the waves at the Atlantic shores of Martha's Vinyard with my childhood friend Stephen. How I miss dear Stephen. I wonder sometimes if he thinks of me, imagines even in his wildest dreams that lovely, pert Vivian LaFontane has moved from tossing pebbles to hurling knives. I picture him in his tiny cabin in Fairbanks, Alaska, typing furitively at his typewriter, churning out those gripping, sultry poems for which he has made such a name for himself.
The snow was so pleasant, soft and wispy and even though I had to endure Walter telling me for the seventh time about the time he and his brother built a snowman the size of farm tractor, I didn't mind. I was warm in the crook of his arm, the stash of Wisconsin cheeses that I discovered in my handbag were delightfully delicious and I knew that Bora Bora wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.