It came as a complete surprise that, upon using the bodyport, you would be transferred into the body of a woman. Companies typically made it a policy to avoid gender swaps, but they never guarantee against them. Occasionally you would hear about a comedic circumstance about someone else's gender swap in the news. It was the exception to the rule, a small-probability event. To have this happen to you, a first-time "flyer", was very unlikely.
You sighed again and tried to ignore the alien sensations coming from your new body. The way the dress clung around the waist and hips. The way it billowed out at the knees and left your slender legs feeling exposed as you walked out of the bodyport, trying to maintain balance on heels without breaking an ankle or falling over. The subtle bounce of the woman's ample breasts despite being restrained by a bra. The wind blowing your hair in front of your eyes and tickling your neck and shoulders. The difference in height despite accounting for the 3-inch heels. The casual turn of the heads of men in your direction, drinking in the beauty that this body seemed to radiate. You would do the same if you could.
As you waited in line in the garage of the car rental area, you observed the behavior of other people. How many were new arrivals at the bodyport? How many were returning home with their original bodies? It was difficult to tell except for a few obvious signs, such as a line of people waiting for car rental, or a family hugging a loved one about to enter a terminal. The woman whose body you temporarily owned wore a wedding ring. Silver engraving with a small diamond affixed to the top. She was... you are... married to a man?
While waiting in line, you realized the need to check the woman's name. So, sifting through her small corduroy handbag (it having been slung around your shoulder this whole time), you found a driver's license and temporal ID to match. Violetta Marinaccio, age 34, 5 feet 2 inches, 115 pounds, brown hair, green eyes. Female. This will be you for the next two weeks.
"Hello? Your name and ID, please." A voice broke through your reverie. You found yourself at the counter, a clerk shuffling papers on the other side of the booth.
"Violetta Marinaccio." You replied slowly, hearing a mellifluous soprano voice flow out of your mouth.
The clerk chuckled, taking the identification cards and jotting down notes on paper. "Miss, that was a decent attempt," He explained. "But remember, for Italian surnames like that, the stress goes on the second 'a', before the double 'c'. Not after. MarinAccio, not MarinaccIO."
Sighing again, you wobbled out to the rental car, listening to your heels click against the pavement. You sat down, swung your legs in (making sure to adjust your dress from ruffling upward), and started the engine. Deciding it would be more comfortable to drive without heels, you kicked them off, discovering that the woman's nails, on her hands as well as her feet, were painted bright red.
The drive was uneventful and had minimal traffic. Thanks to mapping out Violetta's home address before entering the bodyport earlier that day, you knew where to go. What you hadn't anticipated was the height differential, as you really had to sit up straight to see around the car while driving. But soon enough you pulled into the driveway of a modest, single-story house with a grassy front yard and green hedges.
From looking though Violetta's handbag, you knew that she possessed a house key, garage door opener and cell phone, among small personal hygiene items like lip gloss, hair clips, perfume, and a tampon. Yet an important question remained: Is her husband at home right now? Will you have to introduce yourself to a Mr. Marinaccio right now?
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