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18 Dec 01:45

Hjördís Gunnarsdottir was stunningly beautiful, head-over-heels heartbreakingly beautiful, a vision. Her vibrant, wholesome beauty was such that a casual glance her way as you passed by would, for a few moments, brighten your day. It was as if the sparkle in her huge, glacier-blue eyes, or the radiance of her sculpted, angelic face as she gave you a quick smile tugged at your heart, or the bounce in her step as she moved her lithe, gymnast’s dream of a body somehow made you feel just a bit more energetic.

That she walked naked along frigid Reykjavik streets in the dead of night in no way detracted from her beauty but rather gave her the aspect of a Norse goddess sneaking to Earth to check on her worshippers, or, as she passed from the midwinter’s night gloom into the soft glow of a streetlight, when the hoarfrost in her platinum hair would shimmer and sparkle like a halo of diamond dust and her flawless alabaster skin would seem to glow, perhaps a nude Valkyrie sent to succor a fallen hero.

Slowly, almost regally, she made her way down the middle of Skólavörðustígur, bare feet whisking soundlessly through the thin fresh snow. She was indifferent to her nakedness and though her skin was almost as cold as the air around her, she felt no discomfort. Her striking eyes were just beginning to cloud over with wispy, milky white tendrils of film.

17 Dec 17:22

She was feeling much better, and after three days of fever, diarrhea, and bone rattling chills, she was grateful, and doubly so that she didn’t have the pukes on top of it all. She hated puking. Just the thought of puking made her want to puke, and if that wasn’t that a shitty paradox, nothing was.

She actually felt downright perky, and even though she knew better than to push herself so soon, she went on a cleaning spree, starting with her bedroom. The bedcover, pillowcase, and sheets were stripped and tossed in the washer, the empty water glasses picked up and washed, along with her dinner plate from her last real meal three days ago. The toilet was scrubbed along with the sink, the disinfectant sprayed liberally. Her meticulous eye satisfied, she treated herself to a long hot shower, rinsing and repeating three times just to make sure no nasty germs still lurked in her silky mane. When she was done, the bathroom resembled a sauna.

(The remnants of the viral army still in her system were on the verge of total annihilation, but still stubbornly fighting their losing battle against her natural antibodies. Losses were extreme, and hard won territory was abandoned as the superior enemy numbers overwhelmed the shock troops.)

18 Dec 01:48

The hand that fell upon her shoulder was warm, so achingly warm. She stopped, looking down at that hand and felt a pang she had never felt before, hearing, but not understanding, the "Are y…you alright, mi…miss?" spoken in passable but slurred Icelandic by the drunken Dane behind her. She slowly turned towards him.

"Uh, can I h….h…help you with…anything?" he stammered as his Brennivín soaked brain almost overloaded trying to take in the sight of her. His determination to track down the raven haired gal with the monster tits he had followed out of the Laugavegur pub a few minutes ago evaporated. 

"You m…must be…f…freezing. Here," he said, unzipping his jacket and holding it out to her, "put this on." She just stood there, swaying slightly. Since he had a hard time dragging his eyes high enough, he failed to notice there was no breath vapor coming from that cute button nose or from those irresistible, slightly pouty lips. "Here, let me..." he said as he stepped forward, placing the jacket across her shoulders. He thought about calling the police or an ambulance but as he started to snug the jacket around her arms and chest to get the zipper started the motion leaned her towards him, swinging her arms swung forward. When one hand brushed against the growing bulge in his jeans, all thoughts of police or paramedics vanished.  He finally managed to get the zipper part way up, hands shaking from both the cold and his excitement. The wind picked up a bit, mussing her so-blonde-it-was-almost-white hair and gently flapping the empty arms of the jacket.

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