I pressed my forehead against the marble wall of the shower and tried to unravel the previous night; I heard the story of Lilith, who some believed was Adam’s first mate in the Garden, a scholarly rumor about a series of books, written but not included in Genesis, something about Moses and the Beatles’ ‘White Album’ and finally a request for help locating my host’s ex-husband.
“Is there room in there for me,” Leanne’s morning contralto cut through the rain-hiss of the showerheads like Joe Cocker at an elementary school Christmas pageant.
Given the shower was of a size and scale to allow a set of barbells and a Stairmaster, I smiled and said, “Sure, what’s the password?’
“Solomon’s Key,” came the up-lilted response; I laughed, remembering how out of my league I was; a feature of most modern homes since the late-20th century, the master-bath in Leanne’s house had as much in common with Second Empire architecture as a Ferrari among chariots in the Colosseum.
Feeling what I suspected was the last whisper of cool air as she opened the glass door, I remembered what I forgot in the day-and-a-half since the night before; I looked for something to write on, but all I could see was condensation on the glass and my host, Leanne.
I was trying to decide which would last longer when the choice was made for me.
The Case of the Missing Fig Leaf 