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The door was still closing as she began to strip sodden layers off, leaving a trail of wet clothes in her wake. The shower ran nice and hot. Steam filled the bathroom and in crazy rivulets, ran down the glass of the cubicle. Gwen positively revelled as the hot water soothed the trials of the day, washing them, with soap suds, down the drain and away.Her robe hugged her in warm folds of white terry towelling. Her slippers, complete with furry insoles, warmed her feet. At last, she felt relaxed and comfortable and suddenly, very hungry.A quick trawl through the freezer unearthed a micro-waveable TV dinner, perfect for her mood and lack of patience, quick and quite enough to fill the void.While the meal spun and steamed in the micro-wave, Gwen picked up her damp clothes from the hall. Perhaps she should have checked the chain on the door. The damp clothes hit the bottom of the linen basket as the micro-wave pinged.Gwen pulled the cork from her current bottle of wine, each bottle carried. Squeezed against the window, pinning her with his body against her compartment, somehow he became stuck-- it felt as if a part of his uniform had caught on the window latch, perhaps. However it happened, the two of them in their massive, unwieldy winter garments were wedged together like a cork in a bottle.She glared at him with utter hatred. He laughed at the sheer, humiliating mockery the gods were making of him. "My sincere apologies, madam," he said, tipping his hat and then giving the end of his mustache a rakish flick. She harumphed again and looked away.He tugged at his coat, but it failed to release him. An idea occurred to him-- if he could raise her, slightly, the rest of him would probably slide by. It was a dreadful impertinence to touch her, but scarcely worse than the alternative, which was to be stuck with her all the way to Schmertzylvania. What the hell, he thought, and he grabbed her under each armpit and tried to hoist her upward.She shrieked in horror, and seemed.
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