She was thirty-nine years old and going to be forty in a week. She was a fine looking lady with nice breasts, small waist, and flaring hips…what you...would call an hourglass figure. As I sat in the front seat of the car looking at her, I saw her nipples harden under her bra, I saw her breathing become more labored, and I saw her blouse starting to pucker between the buttons. I was on the wrong side of her to look in between the buttons. Why did women’s blouses have to button on the wrong side?. There was no helping it. The only thing that mattered now was making it back to the men’s room.The office was busier now, bustling with activity, the morning well and truly in full swing. More and more men and women saw her in person for the first time since her diagnosis and reacted in their various ways, whether it be amusement, shock, disgust, or snide comments which she was obligated to stop and agree with. She shambled past cubicle after cubicle, feeling her way forward with her hands. More

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