STONEHENGE
It’s her idea to have sex inside of Stonehenge.
We had come back from dinner with her parents, bothof them suitably intoxicated by the
end of the night, and I, intoxicated by their broguesas they told stories of my wife’s rowdy
teenage years.
She used to break into a lot of places, they toldme. And with how old England is, there
were many, many reverent places at her disposal tobe irreverent towards.
There is Lacock Abbey, which she and her friends snuckinto at the age of sixteen to pour
cheap beer into the holy water basin.
Old Wardour Castle, crumbling and cold. Built in the1300s and properly accosted in
2009 when she and her friends smoked and snuffed outthe glowing stubs on the walls.
The Temple of Flora in Stourhead Gardens, upon whichHenry Hoare II inscribed, “Keep
away, anyone profane, keep away.” That’s practicallyan invitation to her. She and her friends
bought Nando’s and ate inside the temple, split potbrownies amongst themselves, and then left
the evidence.
She told me before about the crimes of her youngerself, except I had no idea the extent
of her breaking and entering. There’s not a lot that’sworth breaking into in the states, so when
she told me about it I didn’t think it a hugely bigdeal. But over the course of dinner with her
parents, this strange creature I had married becamestranger and stranger.
When she suggests Stonehenge, I’m sitting on the edgeof the bed, idly watching Dance
Moms on the television and brushing my hair. My wifesquats down in front of me, palms on my
knees, and stares up at me. At first, I barely noticeher, entranced so much at the thought of