He settled beside her. Kissed her gently. She must have waited for that, because as soon as it ended she hopped off the bed and rushed to the bathroom... It wasn’t the quietest of shits. Even over the fan. But it was completely understandable.“Joe?” she shouted.“Yes Goddess?”“Could you call down for bath salts and join me in a bath?”“On it,” Joe replied. “Any food?”“No, but some cognac sounds decadent.”He called and asked for choices. Then asked if they had Armagnac. They did. He went with two. She read the book again when she was fifteen; read it carefully, more comprehending, now. Several times in the summer of her fifteenth year, she rode her bicycle over to Walden Pond, not to go swimming, though that was what she told her mother, but to walk where Thoreau had walked, sit where he sat, and try to feel what he must have felt, but the best she could manage was a sickness at thinking what Thoreau would have thought if he were to rouse from his grave of over a century. Old Henry. More

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