She asked Roderick if he wanted one of her world-famous burgers for a late dinner. With her silky hair cascading seductively over her shoulder, Nora began cooking, the twinkling lights of Paris visible outside the window. In less than five minutes, Nora slid a perfectly cooked hamburger — with caviar in the middle — in front of the muscular, tanned Connor. “Dinner’s served,” she purred.

I lowered the mystery book I was reading, glanced down and saw the ketchup stain on the front of my polyester shirt.

Adjusting my inexpensive reading glasses, I wondered if there would come a day when authors wrote about the adventures of the everyday woman — those who battle grocery lines instead of international spies — and not about fantasy women.

Leaning back into our worn corduroy recliner, I began to daydream…

“The alarm clock beeped incessantly as Nora rolled over in bed, the hole in the knee of her faded flannel pajamas ripping as she made a mental list of her duties for the day, both at home and at work.

The smell of burnt toast pushed her out of bed, and she walked into the kitchen, where her son was dressed and ready for school.

‘I got up early and made my own breakfast,’ said Nora’s 8-year-old son, a huge smile on his jelly-smeared face.

A stick of margarine was on the floor, and jelly was all over the counter. Nora ripped a few sheets of cheap paper towels from the holder and complimented her son’s cooking skills as she wiped his face clean.

‘Mom, I can’t find my homework,’ came her daughter’s cry from upstairs.

‘Look under the couch — I saw your papers there last night when I was looking for the TV remote control,’ yelled Nora, kissing her son goodbye as he left to wait for the school bus.

A few minutes after he left, Nora noticed he’d left his lunch box on the table. Her attempt to catch the bus was thwarted by her daughter, who stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, reminding Nora she’d promised her an early ride to school.

Nora ran toward her bedroom, stopping long enough to retrieve her daughter’s homework. Then she pulled on a pair of oversize sweat pants and snatched the car keys from her cluttered nightstand.

Within seconds, Nora was behind the wheel of their battered minivan. Twenty minutes later, she’d safely deposited both her daughter and the lunch box in the right places.

On her way home, Nora stopped for gas and spied a young woman behind the wheel of a red Mercedes-Benz convertible. Her long hair was impeccably groomed, her nails professionally manicured and her beige Armani suit fit like a glove.

Closing her eyes, Nora escaped into her familiar dream world, where there were no crow’s feet, extra chins or gray hair. For a moment, she was the heroine in her own novel — curvaceous, bubbly and on her way to the next exciting case in Paris.

The clicking of the gas pump jolted Nora back into reality. For beautiful women, men worship at their feet. But most women know if a man’s at her feet, he’s probably looking for the remote control.

Nora might not solve international banking crises, nor would she ever taste caviar. But she knew how to stretch a dollar, find the best deals on back-to-school clothes and put a smile on her family’s faces.”

Examining the hole in the toe of my socks, I realized that in any real woman’s world, those are pretty decent story lines.

Even in Paris.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.