2
Fritz climbed the stairs to the second floor of his house in the Wasatch mountains. Sunshine flooded the room. He had had the place built to take advantage of the sun. More, even, than the views of the hills.
“How was it?” his wife, Beverly, asked. She wore yoga pants and a loose-fitting pale blue top, and he could see her breasts when she leaned over to pick up his garment bag. She was fifty-one, still good looking for her age, with an ass that still held its shape.
Biking and hiking in the summers, skiing all winter long. The mountain lifestyle agreed with both of them. She had no lovers, Fritz was certain of it, and she seemed satisfied with what he could still do.
“It was good,” he answered, kissing her and giving that ass a squeeze. They would make love later. It was their habit
