I.
About three months ago, I moved to a secluded woodland cabin in order to write a book on philosophy. It was a large place with plenty of rooms, but only two other tenants lived there—a happy-looking couple named Edith and Sal, who met me in the driveway as I pulled in, arm-in-arm in matching sweaters. The landlord, who lives in Florida, had introduced us on email, which is how they knew when to expect me.
The first thing I noticed, besides the kindness of the gesture, was how small they were. The tight bun of Edith’s unremarkably brown hair rested just below my chin, and Sal was not much taller. Nor was Sal very well built. His body was shaped like dough, and his hair, vigorously sprouting from nearly every other part of his body, was unfortunately retreating where he needed it most. It made you wonder, in fact, why he ever got it cut: the patch still remaining on the wide expanse of his forehead was almost an island now, curling with the whimsicality of soft-serve ice cream. For all this, however, he did have a certain gravitas to him, a presence no doubt generated by his face, which was sharp and littered with meaningful shadows.
Edith’s face was sharp, too, but in an unflattering way; it was more box-like and grim, like Popeye’s. Yet I could not help but notice that she had a surprisingly appetizing body underneath her sweater, which Sal appeared to be gripping with white knuckles, though perhaps it was cold. Edith looked out from her lower position that day, as she typically did, with the fire of one person challenging another—although to what, exactly, it took me a while to figure out.
Anyway, it was a postcard day in that part of the world, a place I had chosen to live for the next few months: sunny and in the fifties, which meant that once you began moving boxes, things became quite comfortable. With Edith and Sal’s help I was moved within the hour, despite the fact that Sal seemed intent on turning over every artifact he carried, as if searching for a hidden price tag. When all was done, they departed arm-in-arm again, this time just down the stairs, telling me to holler if I needed anything.
But I had a lot on my mind. I had abandoned my previous life, you see, to pursue a dream. In that particular moment, though, as I unpacked, this seemed an unfortunate decision. For the rest of the night, I kept to myself and strove with the “I told you so’s” of a dozen people who had. Neither the deep darkness outside, nor the feeling of being alone and so far from so many people, helped extricate me from social expectation. Had I taken a step back? Maybe this was something with which to start my book…
Graciously, however, as the night wore on, it occurred to me that I had done it; I was finally alone, in the woods, with ample time to think and write. And so I descended into sleep, with peace perchance in my soul. Though in the moment before dropping off, I recall having a powerful urge to know what Edith and Sal were doing. For some reason, they struck me as such a tragic couple.
II.
The next few days would prove me right: there was something unmistakably pathetic about them. It came down to how they interacted with one another, although I couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. Either they were awkward around me, uncomfortable with each other, or some sort of combination of the two. After a few weeks I reflected with some suspicion that I hadn’t seen them touch since that first day. Not that hugging or kissing in front of me would have been expected or welcomed, but as I continued to reflect, I noticed that even in situations where it would have been less awkward to touch (like when Edith had the refrigerator door open and Sal squeezed past her on his way to the table), they avoided it.
Was it in deference to me? Well, that was possible, as both of them seemed to walk on eggshells in my presence, in their own unique way. Edith was exceedingly polite and courteous, always sweeping her hand as if continually laying carpet in front of me. This resulted in many instances of me putting my foot down; of me insisting that she, as the lady and more tenured tenant, should go first. But she was ridiculously stubborn about the whole thing, and eventually I just went along with it.
For all of Edith’s sweeping generosity, Sal was exactly the opposite, but still deferential, still somewhat timid—only his way was rigid and suspicious. He would often jump when I came down the stairs, then quickly and rudely finish whatever he was doing, even if I had no designs for the space he was occupying. With Edith, it was if she was saying—“Oh, please, go ahead…”—whereas Sal seemed to be muttering—“Well, if you’re going to do it anyway, get on with it…”
Anyhow, my impression grew stronger that even in situations in which the smallest touch would have been appropriate, they avoided each other with exquisite care, as if they were both made of glass. But the full import of this observation was delayed, I believe, by an incident about three of four days into my stay, which is somewhat embarrassing for me to admit, and which definitely tricked me into believing that they shared some intimacy, after all…
III.
It happened as I was sitting at my breakfast stool one morning, mute over a bowl of cereal. Gradually my ears were presented with a sound. I couldn’t make out what it was, though, and it seemed that with each passing second I settled on a new interpretation, only to have a new second wash over this previous interpretation like a wave. But in the midst of all this back-and-forth, a deeper suspicion began to arise in me—a vulgar, exciting suspicion—that after a few minutes I could not rid myself of. Edith and Sal were having sex!
It was my final thesis, a conviction that nothing could derail: the sounds of lovemaking were floating up through the floorboards. Oh, what roller-coasters did my mind go through then, as I investigated each sound for the evidence it contained, until I believed I could tell the position, pace, and pleasure being gained from the act. It was not until Edith appeared at the top of the stairs, looking decidedly unsexed, and went over to the counter to pour herself a cup, that I realized: it had been the coffee-maker the whole time.
Thus it was made apparent that Sal and Edith were not enjoying each other that morning. Still, the possibility of it had passed through my mind, and perhaps left some of its residue on the way out. For a while I held onto the possibility that it may yet be happening here and there. But, by degrees, it became obvious: they had not touched, as far as I could tell, since I arrived. And if they did make love, by all indications it was dry and silent. The first inkling that their relationship was not as solid as I had once presumed began to masquerade as a possibility. But this just as quickly left—for it was none of my business, after all, and I had much more important work ahead of me.
IV.
But it was inevitable that I should come to know them, was it not? After all, I did live with them. I was forced to say good morning to Edith, for example, when she jumped out of her breakfast stool and pulled one out for me. I had no choice but to run into Sal multiple times throughout my day, whenever I wanted a glass of water or snack from the fridge—Sal who never seemed to leave the kitchen table except to pop up awkwardly whenever I appeared.
Indeed, it was because Sal and I stayed around the house most of the day that I came to know him first; and I do not think it would be an exaggeration to say that we began on somewhat rocky terms. I offered him a “Good morning” at about ten o’clock on the day after I moved in, to which he replied: “Is it?” and continued staring at his computer screen. I was somewhat taken aback. Not only did this man treat me kindly the day before, coming across as the Pillsbury dough boy with perhaps a penchant for intellect, but I even foreshadowed friendship between us. Now he dared to question a mere formality, not even deigning to raise his head in the process?
Yes, Sal paid me little attention in those first few weeks, unless to impatiently move his things around under the presumption that they were in my way. In the beginning, all I knew about him was that he called himself a “composer,” but in the face of his rudeness, I began muttering “poser” under my breath, since, as far as I could tell, all he did was sit at the kitchen table and play video games on his computer.
Throughout the day he wore a white wife-beater, seemingly the same one, from which his doughy arms and pouch-like belly protruded unflatteringly. Other forms of hygiene were not high on his list either, like shaving or using deodorant. For some reason, if he ever did dress up, it was only at night, although he and Edith never went anywhere.
But there was something else particularly distasteful about him. During those first few weeks we had many potential housemates come by, most of them women because there was a small women’s college in town, and I noticed that Sal would treat the women greasily, almost without fail. Oh, he had charm alright, I’ll give him that—the type of charm you’d expect from a pizza-baker on smoke break, which women sometimes go for in their younger years. The only problem for Sal was that these women were fully aware of how indecent it was for him to flirt with his girlfriend downstairs, who was meanwhile drinking herself into a slow and peaceful stupor.
That was, after all, Edith’s wont after work. She cashiered at a co-op grocery store, came home religiously at the same time, hardly ever ate dinner, and usually drank boxed wine until bed.
Since she mostly drank in her room, I would never have known about it if not for Sal’s incessant complaining. Presumably he was worried about her health, about this unhealthy habit she had developed to soften a disappointing life; but he also complained once, in a heightened moment of agitation, that she would get a little “handsy” after a glass or two. I imagined it was all Sal could do to fight her off until she passed into sleep. It made me wonder, though, whom Edith complained to about her boyfriend’s…lack of muster, we’ll say…and whether she knew anything about his unsavory and unwelcome advances on the women upstairs. I said nothing, of course, since it was none of my business, and even less of my interest.
In the meantime, the solitude of our location was getting to me, and I began to wonder if a little time among the people would not be good for my writing. In late March, I asked Edith if I could accompany her to work on Wednesdays, to which she agreed. It would be no extra trouble for her, she said, there being a coffee shop on her way to work that she could drop me off at in the morning and pick me up from in the afternoon.
Even still, I thought I might offer something small to express my gratitude, until I discovered on the first ride to town that I would be paying far more than I expected. My new occupation, it seemed, as Edith’s captive, was to endure her sad dirge about work, how it was suffocating the very life out of her, how if she had any other option she would take it, so on and so forth. Through this monocle, too, she stuffed all the other problems of her life, like how her relationship was just as demanding, routine, and unfulfilling as her career.
Sweet Heavens, how these conversations made me want to barrel-roll out of the car onto the highway! And yet I found my forays into the town stimulating, so every Wednesday morning I had a dilemma on my hands. Almost invariably, however, the opportunity to “see the people” took precedence over the sacrifice involved, at least until the doors shut and Edith’s motor took off.
V.
One night in early April, as the seasons hung on the brink, Sal decided for some reason that he wanted to play Monopoly. I was warm with wine that night and had nothing else planned, so I agreed. Edith also agreed. Having just come home, she probably calculated that she could drink and roll dice at the same time.
The game was set up and the pieces distributed. We passed a merry forty-five minutes in that first stage of the game, before anyone’s had a chance at a monopoly. Outside, the howling wind shook the day’s rain from the trees, which fell on our roof in spurts. It was reassuring to be inside. Then Edith landed on the key square and a three-way deal was made, initiating that second stage in which everyone’s position is vulnerable. The next few moves, I knew, would likely determine the winner.
Edith yawned. She took a sip of the wine I had offered her. Sal, enthusiastic at first but since a bit flustered at having to be the banker, watched her slowly. My eyes were on the board. The two of them were approaching the thick of my business, but didn’t seem to realize it yet, so I was bristling with miniature excitement. There’s something about being handed money, even if it’s fake, that feeds the soul.
Sure enough, Sal rolled an 8.
He was halfway through counting it out when he realized the verdict. He bunched his lips tightly together and sighed heavily through his nose, looking down at the little he had. Having spent a good deal of capital in his exchange with Edith, even mortgaging his houses would barely cover the cost, plus he would have no way of making anything—all of which meant he had just wasted an hour of his life. Edith smiled. I think she was glad that someone was winning; it meant the game was almost over.
But her smile was a dreadfully tired one. Work really does take everything out of her, I thought kindly. As Sal mortgaged his properties, undoubtedly using his connections at the bank to negotiate a good deal, Edith swayed her body to some song in her head. Then she began to hum. Nobody paid her any attention, and in between her humming was the dead whispering of money.
Soon, she grew silent and closed her eyes. She muttered:
“I heard a joke about a muffler today, but I’m too exhausted to tell it.”
My attention was on Sal’s pudgy fingers as they flew about the bank, gathering me what I owed, and then somewhat unconsciously I began to laugh, laughing even harder as I caught up to it. I took my eyes off Sal for a moment to find Edith’s smiling face; her eyes were still closed. A little while later, once my laughter had subsided, Sal declared that he was bankrupt—how, he had no idea. Edith then conceded to me, and we all went to sleep.
VI.
As spring was putting a hesitant toe forth, my mind was bent on philosophy. My writing was not going well. Every week I tried to flesh out how people ought to live, specifically what sort of actions were acceptable and which were not, but each time I found some sort of loophole, some scenario that contrasted the black-and-white of my law. Nor were Edith and Sal helping. Here I had two people under the same roof as me, living contrary to how they should. On the one hand it was clear that Edith should quit her job immediately because it made her depressed and life was only so long; on the other, she couldn’t quit because Sal wasn’t doing anything to contribute. So the issue was with Sal, and I battled myself ever-increasingly whether I should do anything to intervene. After all, if I was writing the law, shouldn’t I be following it? Shouldn’t I be—enforcing it?
In fact, this began to bother me a great deal. More and more, thoughts of what I should do with the small couple downstairs contaminated my writing block, so much so that I decided to fix them one Monday, otherwise no writing would get done.
Now, as a philosopher, I was well-versed in human nature, even if the subject did not hold much interest. (My main concern was what humans ought to be, not what they were.) Nevertheless, I knew I could not merely tell the two of them how to act; I must in some way suggest it. And what better way for a writer than his writing? So I opened myself (ostensibly) to the wisdom of others, handing each of them a chapter and asking if they would help. The title of the chapter was “On Love.”
I should admit that I never really expected Edith to read it. It was not because we were in any way distant—we had become close through our rides to town, and it seemed each week she was more and more tickled with my status as a writer. It was rather that she never found any time to read herself. But even as we both knew this, she yet had the courtesy to express delight when I handed her a copy, and I do think she was pleased to have proof that I was indeed writing during all those hours I spent alone in my room. It was through Sal, though, that I hoped to have my effect.
Our relationship had grown from that first day. Believe it or not, I was actually beginning to like him. Behind that ridiculous contrast of body and face I found a subtle and patient intellect, so subtle and patient that I could only stomach a little at a time. And I was not unaware of the fact that while I hoped to drive change through him, I was also hoping for the bonus of his thoughts on my writing—I realized this all the more fully when, as I handed him a copy, I did so with butterflies in my stomach.
VII.
About a week passed, and I heard nothing from either of them. During our Wednesday drive, Edith and I played that little game where she told me she was excited to read it, and I told her I was excited to hear what she thought. As for Sal, behind his eyes I could not discern whether he had read it and was judging me for it, or whether he had not read it at all and never planned to, or whether he was halfway through it, or what. Probably other things were on his mind, because at the end of the week they announced to me that they were moving out—separately.
They were arm-in-arm as they delivered the news, just as they were on that first day, except without matching sweaters. I wasn’t very surprised. I had hoped to reach them before it came to this, but now that it had happened, I fought the urge to tell them that this had a direct bearing on my writing. Instead I asked:
“Where will you go?”
Sal to a similar place not far from here where he would continue his “composing,” Edith back to the town where she grew up. It was about an hour away and her mother still lived there. I wished the both of them the best of luck and offered to help them move boxes when the time came.
Of course it was a formality, this offer. Indeed it slipped out of me, as the customary thing to say, without me thinking about it—sort of like how we say “Fine” when someone asks us how we are, even if we aren’t. The truth is that from the moment they told me of their separation, I began the long labor of forgetting all about them. For it immediately dawned on me that it might have been them, all along, who in their mediocrity had sapped my inspiration for meaningful, philosophical inquiry. It would be a good thing to have their influence removed, I thought. At the very least it couldn’t hurt.
They moved out four days later, on a Thursday, and thankfully Sal took my offer to mean no more than it meant. After my writing session in the morning, he knocked politely at my door and asked if I had a few minutes, which I did. So we went downstairs to where he had stacked about thirty boxes by the sliding glass doors—the boxes, he said, were mostly full of musical scores. We began carrying them through the doors and up a little hill to the driveway, where a small moving truck was stationed. The truck already contained some of his bigger items—I still have no idea how he got them in there. Either way, it only took us about an hour to load the remainder.
When we were finished, I extended my hand.
“It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.”
“Likewise,” he said. “If I can give you a piece of advice?”
“Sure.”
“Try to access a little more of the everyday in your writing,” he told me. “It will be a hard life if you remain so idealistic.”
I thanked him, and after a few more minutes of polite conversation, he left. About an hour later, Edith knocked on my door. I opened it and found her standing primarily on one leg, her hands behind her back.
“Hi,” she smiled, reminding me of an old Lithuanian housekeeper I had once.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, just a few things,” I said cautiously. As a rule I never admitted to doing nothing, if I could help it, because in my experience it was a green light for other people to waste your time. “What are you up to?”
“Oh, just moving.”
“Alright.” I turned to find my shoes. “You have some boxes downstairs or something?”
“Kind of.”
What happened next was a small miracle, if you take the view of life that, well, life itself is a miracle—from the point of view, I mean, that marvels at how fireflies came, over millions of years, to illuminate the darkness as their specific way of mating. It was sort of mind-boggling if you thought of it; sort of impossible, it seemed, for slow and plodding evolution to account for it—in the same way that an idea just “pops” into our head and does not seem to be incrementally progressive, although I suppose it is.
Anyway, what I mean to say is that I was drawn somewhat miraculously into the trap that had been set for me. I relate this with the knowledge the future brings, of course, for at the time I was unconscious of its unfolding—but still, the way I was moved along was kind of stupendous. First it was that the boxes were not downstairs, exactly, but at a location close-by; then it was that the location was actually an hour away, the location being her mother’s house, where much of her stuff was stored; then it was an “accidental” run-in with her mother, which resulted in dinner; and then, just when I was at my wits’ end with how my time was being treated, it was that Edith had been asked to house-sit a beautiful ranch only five minutes away from the restaurant, which, as a form of compensation, opened its full bar to us.
This last was a genius stroke, since all writers like to drink; and so I went from severely annoyed to somewhat placated, contingent upon the quality of liquor; and as I rummaged through the selection, Edith searched for a movie for us to watch.
VIII.
I was on my way back from the liquor cabinet again when against the darkness emanating from the far window I perceived a yet darker and denser shape in my way. It was Edith, got up from the corner of the room to place herself in my path. I shuffled to the left but there was the coffee table; to my right was the piano. Anything I could have done to avoid her would have been more ludicrous than what I did: I walked straight into her and curled my fingers around her belt-loops, submitting to her with the resolve of someone who catches something thrown at them. She gathered meaningfully into me while the moonlight’s lotion convinced me for a moment that she was a woman in her twenties, a woman I had never met.
So I kissed her and she gave in, but not for long. There was suddenly a catch in time. Rearing back, she asked, “In what way are you kissing me?”
I had to be honest. “In a way I don’t want to be,” said I.
Caught in her own narrative, she was in no mood to take this literally. Instead she heard a vaguely romantic sentiment, as if I meant that she was forbidden fruit or something. After another moment or two I had to extricate myself forcefully. I was tired, I said. I had to go to bed.
Without looking back, I turned around and trudged blindly up the steps of this stranger’s home, finding a room on the second floor and to my right. I opened it and fell onto the bed. All was quiet. I listened to my breathing and hoped against hope she would not find me. But soon the door was shouldered open.
She stumbled over to the bed and crawled on top of me. She began kissing my neck. “We can’t,” I said. “We can,” she whispered back. For a while more we kissed, and kissed in such a way that I knew this would be a desperate act, if the action were allowed to complete itself. This was no experiment, no time for reveling in each other’s bodies; this would be meat-and-potatoes work, a service. After a while, I couldn’t stand it.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me check the downstairs light.”
I went downstairs and fumbled around a bit. I hoped to God she would fall asleep in a drunken stupor while she waited. Turning finally to go back upstairs, I saw her standing with gleaming eyes on the ledge. She had taken her pants off; the indent there reminded me of her cleft chin, and her head lolled like a dog. “Are you coming?” she asked.
Back in bed, she flailed her arms around weakly, and her mouth roamed like a fish out of water, finding my body in odd places. God, she was drunk. Eventually she stopped moving, not from any effort of mine, and I left for the bed on the third floor.
IX.
According to my own understanding of things, I had done nothing wrong, and yet the next morning I awoke with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, similar to the one I get when I have done something wrong. The sunlight streaming through my window was particularly offensive, urging me downstairs faster than I wanted to go. There Edith was, boxlike and responsible, cooking breakfast.
I hesitated for a moment, then approached her directly.
“Listen,” I said. “I think we should talk about this.”
She kept her eyes on the stove. “You must be pretty brave, approaching me before I’ve had my coffee.”
I thought that was an odd response, but I continued.
“It’s just that…Sal…”
Well, you can imagine what sort of response that elicited. She turned from the stove with fire in her eyes, a challenge for me to say anything more. She, after all, was the one who dated Sal for all those years; she had known and loved him, not I. So how dare I bring this obvious presence into the picture, this character lurking in the shadow of the painter’s paint?
But now she wanted to know—no, seriously—what it was about Sal that was making me uncomfortable. Was there anything he said? About her? I squirmed to extricate myself from the sticky situation. I knew in my bones I could not utter—or even think of—the truth: you simply cannot tell a woman she is undesirable, in the same vein that you cannot tell a man what he has to do. It would be to violate a code as old as gender, and I would pay for it eternally.
We had our breakfast in silence. After, Edith dropped me back at the house, driving away without saying a word. I cannot tell you how relieved I was to be free of that struggle—finally with the time, space, and solitude for deep philosophical interrogation. The world of thought lay at my feet once again, ripe for the taking.
X.
It was only natural that I would give the two of them a wide berth, not having their phone numbers or addresses at my disposal, and moreover wanting nothing to do with them; but one day the house received a call, which I picked up casually, thinking it was another interested tenant. It took me a second to recognize Sal’s voice on the other end.
“Oh—hi, Sal. How are things?”
“Things are alright,” he said. “The new place is working out, and I’m getting plenty of time to compose. How are you doing?”
“Oh, I can’t complain,” I replied. “Things are alright here. I’m finding a little more time to think and write…and, come to think of it, your advice has been enormously helpful…”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Listen,” Sal began. “I spoke to Edith the other day.”
I drew my breath silently. Please remember that, to my mind, I had done nothing wrong, and yet in my stomach pranced that self-righteous anxiety, whose belief is that you have done something wrong. I shook my existential fist at it and continued to listen to Sal.
“—agreed that if it’s what she wants, then she should feel free to pursue it, with no interference from me.” He paused again. “Now, she did mention that there might be some hesitation on your end about my feelings in all this, which, I have to say, is very thoughtful of you, but I just wanted to tell you person to person that—”
“Look, Sal, this is really very—” I tried to interject, but he kept on talking.
“—it’s okay with me, it really is. Look, I think you’re a good guy, I do. Of course I love Edith and will cherish our time together, but loving her also means knowing when to let her go… and I won’t be the one to prevent her happiness.”
I said nothing for a while, apparently frozen.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. Then, gaining momentum, I told him: “I think what you’re doing is really fine, Sal. Really…noble.”
“Listen,” I could see him smiling whimsically on the other end, his soft-serve flip making him seem, for the moment, young again, “just take care of her, will you?”
“Alright,” I said stupidly. “And you take care of yourself, too.”
“Goodbye.”
I felt slightly annoyed after hanging up the phone, like I had just been swindled into buying something I didn’t need. The honest truth was that I didn’t want Edith, and yet there she was, sitting underneath my Christmas tree, resplendent in Sal’s wrapping. I decided that the best thing to do was nothing. Sal had made his gracious offer, and Edith had her permission. But there was one factor missing from the equation: my participation. They would soon both learn the truth—that I wanted nothing to do with this, that I just wanted to write a goddamned book!—and, hopefully, this would die of its own accord.
Except, a few weeks later, Edith came by to pick up her winter tires.
XI.
I was coming back from a walk as she pulled in. It was the middle of summer and very hot. Given that it had been over a month since we saw each other last, I was pleased to see her. We had a pleasant chat as I helped her load the tires into the car, after which she lounged uncomfortably on the trunk, like a model who has forgotten how to bend. The allotment for polite conversation nearing its limit, I made a few overt gestures that I should return to work, but Edith lingered, telling me that there was a swimming hole nearby, and it was all anyone could do in this sort of weather to cool off.
I hesitated and thought of Sal’s phone call. I did, technically, have his full permission, and I was, biologically, a male attracted to females. That old Greek scene was not lost on me, either, of wood-nymphs bathing in a spring, nor was that pull toward dominance missing from my gut: with a single word I could follow this woman to a secluded woodland spot and have my way with her, however I saw fit.
And yet I knew I could not do this.
I had ventured downstairs the day before, you see, in an effort to escape the afternoon heat, and found something that would forever prevent me from using Edith like an object. The following note was lying flatly on their nightstand:
Dearest Edith,
You are wonderful, sweet, lovely, and I love having you. I will love you to the end.
Sal
It broke my heart to think that Sal had written this despite knowing that his invitation left room for me to use Edith wantonly—that she might even want that. But his invitation also left room for the possibility that we would date, fall in love, marry and have children. It allowed me to have all these things with the woman he wanted to have them with. A woman he still loved wholeheartedly. Of course, he could never have known I would see his letter. It seemed he had left it for Edith, who never came back to find it.
Eventually, Edith got the hint that there would be no swimming that day or any other. I’m sure she went home at that point, since she wasn’t the type to do anything fun by herself. I hoped it would not be to devastating for her to realize that the initial reason I gave her—Sal—was not in fact the true reason. And I prayed that she found something, somewhere in what I said, that she could hang onto, something that would allow her to persist as she was—slightly old, somewhat ugly, and entirely alone for now.
Anyway, my purpose in going out to the woods was to write a book, and for a few months after my escapade with the small couple, I wrote productively. But somewhere near the fall, an urge to return to the city and, more than anything, participate in a normal modern life, came over me. It may seem sappy to some, but I am still very much a seasons guy, one who puts a good deal of stock in their power to change our moods and minds. Which is, come to think of it, just one more thing that I could not quite account for in my book, part of a much longer list that perhaps had as much to do with my giving up as the cooler temperatures and circling, noncommittal leaves.