Harry B. Sanderford
“Honey, I’m home… Just me, Sugar,” Doc rehearsed on his walk from the barn to the house. It always took a bit before his borrowed ears adjusted to the sound of his borrowed voice. Physical sensations were mostly familiar, though often incorrectly categorized. Twisting the icy door knob awoke senses in his fillings. Snow melting in his boots felt like sand between his toes. He’d watched his host slip on the steps, landing squarely on his ass. He had a private chuckle, truth be told, yet the only discomfort he registered now was a ticklish burn in his earlobes.
Pushing the back door open, he was relieved to see the bluish flicker that meant Beth was watching television. If he played it right he could thaw out in a warm shower and collect himself a bit before engaging in more than cursory conversation. It was not that he wished to avoid Beth; he'd become fond of her on his previous visits. She of course knew nothing of the arrangement, but her smile was real and his to keep whenever he manned the controls of her husband's body.
“Hi Sugar,” he called from the hallway.
“Hey babe, it’s going to be a cold one tonight. How do you feel about chili?” Beth asked.
“Sounds great to me Hon. You know it’s you who’ll pay later.”
“No beans in yours!” she shouted.
“Ha, fair enough. I’m going to take a quick shower to warm up," he shouted back.
Safe, he thought and gestured with hands already becoming familiar as he watched them close the bathroom door.
