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Amos’ usual time of leaving would have been after Scott needed to start his job, so Amos must’ve gone in earlier than usual this morning. Perhaps, Clare wondered, Amos had thought she had been lying there so peacefully that he had decided to let her sleep on. After all, as a stay-at-home mum, she had no pressing need to get up early every day. ‘When I get back upstairs,’ she thought, ‘I’ll send him a text message on my phone, thanking him for my lie-in, and include my love, knowing that he hated being called directly during the day when he was often up to his eyeballs in banking work.’ Indeed, Amos Shillingstone usually started work at eight, but this morning he had been in since a quarter past seven, a full quarter hour before the postman dropped off the first post of the day. Amos had sat in the dark on a chair near the door, waiting until the postman took three goes to deposit all of the mail for the bank through the ancient, narrow, highly-polished brass letterbox in the front. I think about words. Small tits but sensitive nipples. Wet pussy. Hard cock. Pearl necklace. Jacking off. Fingering. Pinching your hard rosebuds atop your tits. Stroking my cock in front of your face. Sticking my tongue between the folds of your wet lips. Clitoral sucking. A finger up your ass. But not words of love and romance. No flowers. No dinners by candlelight. I touch myself. It is dark. I am alone. Now I am hard. I feel the first drops emerging from my tip, and my hand slides both along the smooth skin and with the slick lubricant I am producing. My hand slides along the smooth skin, but slowly and quietly. I have to be careful. There is a door. But it is only a door. Doors are meant to be opened. They can open at any time. I touch myself. I think of words that create images. I think of pure images. Of memories. Tight black leggings with no underwear. The outlines of lips so clear, so obvious, so visible. Images that were not sexual at the time. Images that were the subject.
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There is no reason, however, why rivers of greater magnitude, than any which have hitherto been discovered in it, should not emanate from mountains of such limited altitude, as the known mountains of that immense and sea-girt territory. But, it appears to me, it is not in the height and character of its hilly regions, that we are to look for the causes why so few living streams issue from them. The true cause, I apprehend, lies in its climate, in its seldom experiencing other than partial rains, and in its being subject to severe and long continued droughts. Its streams descend rapidly into a country of uniform equality of surface, and into a region of intense heat, and are subject, even at a great distance from their sources, to sudden and terrific floods, which subside, as the cause which gave rise to them ceases to operate; the consequence is, that their springs become gradually weaker and weaker, all back impulse is lost, and whilst the rivers still continue to support a feeble.

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