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The hot water felt good on the crisp November day. It cascaded over her head and shoulders. It was so relaxing. She let the spray pound the muscles in her back and took the soap and let it glide over her. First she washed her arms, then her chest and shoulders. She took some soap in her hands and rubbed it on her face and neck. She took a washcloth and did her legs. Soon she had her head full of shampoo. She took some of the lather into her hands. She couldn't help herself. She massaged it into her breasts, soft and gentle, lifting and cupping them. She let her thumbs stroke over the nipples. She imagined a man doing it. It could have been Carl, her late husband, or her recent lover, Paul Crane. Then her thoughts turned to a man who had never touched them, Walter Hartley. She scooped more shampoo from her hair and let her hands rub the lather into her lower triangle of hair. The pressure of her fingers was firm, but light, and then she let them drift lower. She pressed her hips back. We shared "most embarrassing moment," stories and laughed until our sides hurt. We talked about musicals, which I enjoyed and which Lauren had a passion for as well. More than once during her Idol competition, she said, the acerbic Simon Cowell had labeled her performance "too Broadway" and she said she never thought of it as an insult. We had no time to secure tickets to anything that evening, but we had both heard of and were interested in a new show called "Avenue Q," and I privately resolved to secure tickets for us when this was all over and we could relax.It was after 11 when I had looked at my watch, still adorned with the little S-shape carved out of the crystal face by the reality-eating glowworms, and realized we should be getting back to the hotel. And when we fell into bed, there was no hesitation, no tentativeness. We began slowly, but fire overtook us and I remember hoping that the room immediately to the left of ours was unoccupied, given the vigorous expression we.
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