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enjoyed sharing mirrors.
    Judith’s straight dark hair was kept so it barely brushed her shoulders and it was cut with bangs that just hid her brows while helping her large brown eyes appear even larger. She had fine features, was fine boned, diminutive. It would have been perfect had she been graceful; however, although she was twenty-nine, there was a kind of adolescent gangliness about her, at times charming. And contradicting that was her voice, which didn’t match her at all. Instead of the frail or sweet wispy voice her appearance led one to anticipate, she had a constant huskiness, as though she had been talking or shouting too much. Whenever the moment wanted, Judith could round out the sound of it into a mellifluousness that was, as she knew, as attractive as it was surprising.
    Marion was just as pretty in her way. She was taller, almost five nine, and fuller but not unpleasingly heavy. That she was more mature than Judith was the first impression (she was six months younger). It had much to do with Marion’s height and her ample breasts and the way she carried herself and moved about, always at an easy pace that implied patience, experience. She had a lovely honest laugh. Her hair, styled semi-short and wavy, was Miss Clairol light ash blonde shade number 28. However, she didn’t get it from Clairol. It was hers naturally and her pubic hair proved it.
    There was nothing masculine about either of these women. Quite the contrary, it was each other’s total femininity that they found so desirable.
    From the time they began experimenting with tenderness they knew they were taking a step out of step. But then neither considered it really infidelity. It was contemporary derring-do more than anything. Whispering:
    â€œYou like that?”
    â€œMmmm.” (Conveying more than yes.)
    â€œDoes this feel nice?”
    â€œStrange.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI mean different, better, without even trying.”
    â€œHow about there?”
    â€œYou know.”
    â€œI know.”
    Fingertips, as light as possible, the very tips of nails barely touching, tracing the outline of arm from shoulder slowly all the way slowly to finger crotches. Their advantage was having confidence in delicacy, to run the sensitive surfaces of sides with conscientious touch, down the dips of waists, up the rises of hips, circling aureoles, appreciatively, and no doubt about it. Giving attention to neglected places that often showed relief by changing texture.
    â€œThere must be a better word for it.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGoose bumps.”
    Exploring, laying hands on with feathery slight contact. Spending an entire hour not moving, just holding, being gently pressed. Taking nothing for granted, not even taking giving for granted, but gradually over the stolen hours discovering one another’s preferences and mentally tucking them away for future unselfish and selfish use.
    So this was what they had heard and wondered about; this was what some women had done, were doing now? It wan’t bad. It was certainly more than they had expected. They hadn’t expected to unleash such insatiability, being able to achieve and cause again and again. It amazed them. They thought of it as the blessing of being female. A man could cope with it, perhaps, but hardly match or share it.
    They were two months into it before they kissed; long, open mouth to mouth. For some reason of conscience they considered that the beginning of marital deception. For a while guilt intruded, tried to wedge seriously between them. They shut it out by getting even closer. They increased the flow of reliance. Fought guilt with affection.
    Recently, however, they had been brought to face a truly practical crisis.
    Judith’s husband, Fred, was considering changing jobs. He had received an offer from a firm in Springfield, Massachusetts. It meant a substantial increase in salary and another rung up the executive climb. When he told