I couldn’t take it any longer. I called Logan’s Uncle Mal and he said it was fine to use his cabin, so I packed up some supplies (a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly) and headed up. You go up this tiny road to an even tinier road and then up this long driveway and there’s Uncle Mal’s cabin. It’s so beautiful here. Green everywhere. Completely peaceful. No one around for miles. No Internet or cell phone signal. I’m so irresponsible to come up here without telling Logan. It’s really rather posh, with two floors, washer and drier, and a fire-pit out back. No piano though. For our honeymoon we spent a week here, and Logan was so worried he’d be without a piano for more than two days in a row. Ha ha, we had so much sex I don’t think he missed his piano one bit. He said I was irrepressibly sexy. I wonder if he still thinks so. Sometimes I wonder how compatible we are. I mean we both love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but he likes crunchy peanut butter, scads of it, and just a slim skin of strawberry jam, less than an inkling, barely a hint, while I like creamy peanut butter, but just a thin film of it, and extra heavy on the strawberry jam. I guess between the two of us, things work out even.

I took a long hot shower and toweled off and went naked outside and sat on the shaded part of the stone wall which curves around about three sides of the fire pit.

The stone felt nice and cool on my bottom. When we were here before, we made love several times in the evening with the fire blazing. I thought about that and started touching myself. I think I am irrepressible—or at least my clitoris is. I had a good come and I relaxed for a while lying on the stone wall with the breeze cooling me off, and then I went in and had another shower and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich just the way I like it. It’s getting dark. I wonder if I can figure out how to work the fire pit. Either way I’ve got my irrepressible clit for company.