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I picture him, reading alone in a dark Saturday afternoon, enjoying the quietness of his home. But what's the point? The sequence of stories? I can invent hundreds of them, different plots, different characters, but they all seem the same to me. Rip the pages of a book and throw them into the air, they'll fall onto the floor, all unique, but all just the same for anyone looking at the scene."I'm making both life and writing one and the same, and they're both going in the wrong direction."That day Athena tried to console me, but I don't remember what she said. I wasn't listening. I left the Place and didn't go back to work.I started this story talking about photography. Pictures save forever that unique moment which will never come back. We hold them in our hands and see people who are gone, still young and ignorant of the things to come. All the possibilities still open, and yet not knowing the tragedies that would befall upon them days later, months later.Despite what Athena said. I'd never really had much sexual interest in Janet even though she was pretty, more or less a slightly younger version of my wife.With Peg and me, the last few years had seen her interest in sex diminish while mine, well, if anything, might have even increased, who knows why? Maybe just because Peg's had fallen.But, the massage, well, four female hands sliding over my body, it was having an effect on relaxing me except for one spot that I was laying on.They moved to my legs, Peg on my left side, Jan on my right and began with my feet and arches.All this time, they're talking a bit about how to relax certain muscles, Janet showing her different techniques and so on, as I lay there being as pampered as I'd never been before.They worked their way up my calves and onto my thighs as I felt a hand glide up my inner thigh and fingertips graze across the side of my testicles. And not once or twice but over and over, each time going just a bit higher and spending a little more time there..
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