As of late, whenever she is with me, Lauren is sweet as hell. No, she is positively pious. But witness the recent electronic-mail exchange with Felicity, her artist friend from London. On Wednesday, September 27, they went together to a club to hear Barb, a musician, also a friend. The next day Felicity wrote to Lauren:

I thought Barb was brilliant—I was really impressed by her performance. It was a great night out. I think you caused quite a stir among the male members there—a few of them stopped me on the way out to ask me if you were an athlete.

Poor Lauren. On occasion, with her bulging muscles exposed, she does look like a lumberjack. The “athlete” must have hurt irrespective of the amorous context. Indeed, this was her response of the same date:

Athlete? That’s a good one. Which guys inquired—not that I’m shopping. (Hmm.) I sort of like the pianist, Russell. Did you find him sort of sexy? Not typical, though—perhaps it’s just me.

She is shopping, of course, and Felicity is very much aware of it. She is in on Lauren’s little secrets, I am sure. Anyway, Felicity dutifully came back the following day, September 29:

Can’t remember exactly what your devotees looked like. Yes, in a funny kind of way the keyboard player was quite attractive, though I couldn’t say why.

Thus my pious wife and her dear friend, a quintessential happily-married woman with two little children. I am sure she, too, is pious as hell when she is around her husband, also an artist and a friend, who takes care of the children when she has a night out. The cunts.