It was another leisurely morning. The kids had trundled off to school and the lover had gone off to work, and she lay languidly in the lukewarm water. Hot when she first toed her way into the tub, the water had left her weak. It was time to get out.

Through the screened window she could hear the chatter of crows and the tiny talk of sparrows. A gentle tinkling cut through the trees from the other house, where several sets of chimes had been hung along the front veranda.

It was almost 10 o’clock, and the first pangs of hunger were pointing her in the necessary direction of the kitchen.

She roughed up her short hair with a heavy towel, then dried off and wrapped it around her body, tucking a corner of the towel into itself above her left breast. The mineral-laden water, laced with lavendar oil, had left a ring in the tub; while the water ran down the drain, she scrubbed the grime off with a used facecloth. Then she squeezed the water out of it, hung the wet terrycloth square over the side of the tub to dry, and walked out of the bathroom.

Before she’d made it to the end of the hall, the towel had come loose and she put up her hands to tighten it. Then she remembered she was alone — totally alone, but for the birds and the curtain of living greenery covering every window that met her eye. This was as good a time as any to go naked; she might as well take advantage of it.

She hung the towel neatly over the back of a kitchen chair and stepped over to the cupboard. There was just enough dry cereal for one bowlful, and she liked the thought of putting the empty cardboard box into the recycling bin, making more space in the overcrowded kitchen cupboard.

Simple things. It was the simple things in life that contented her. She was not a difficult person to please. This morning she’d been out of bed in time to see her boys and her lover out the door. She’d read her mail and surfed the web for an hour. She’d soaked in the tub and now she would sit at her desk and eat breakfast, while through the open windows could be heard the traffic of birdlife and the breezy rustling of the poplar leaves.

By the time the cereal bowl was scraped empty, her body had begun to cool. She took the bowl to the kitchen and headed toward the bedroom to find something to wear. Just as she reached the porch, which she had to pass through to get downstairs to the bedroom, the door swung open and there stood the farmer who lived down the road.

His “Anybody home?” was cut short by a startled glimpse of her naked glory, and followed by an embarrassed “Oh — sorry” as he turned on his heel and made a rapid exit.

She let him go. He'd have a story to tell, at any rate. And she — well, she doubted he'd actually seen more than a fleshy blur before he did his about-face.

She'd probably missed his knock, as she often did when she was in her office. She wondered how many days or weeks it would be before he showed his face at the door again.

Ah well. These were the hazards of living in a house in the country, weren't they? You think you are alone, but when you most wish to be, it turns out you are not.