“Not that you speak from experience or anything,” Elle said.

“Once. I wore those panties once and they disintegrated in the washer.”

“Hand wash in the sink, cold water, soak overnight, hang to dry.”

“Where were you when I needed you last summer?”

“Here,” Elle said. “Pushing a rock up the hill, letting it roll down and then pushing it back up again. I’m still here.”

“I’m glad you’re still here. Even if means you’re pushing a rock up a hill every day. Even if it means...”

“Means what?”

“Even if it means me getting in trouble for talking to you during the Grand Silence.”

Elle had a feeling Kyrie wanted to say something else, meant to say something else. But she’d somehow lost her courage.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Tell anyone what?”

“That I don’t believe Hell exists. It’s kind of a heresy.”

“I am a walking heresy,” Elle said. “And no, I won’t tell.”

Kyrie looked at Elle but didn’t smile. She didn’t frown, either. She simply looked at her as if trying to memorize Elle’s face. Elle let her.

“Anyway, I should go to bed,” Kyrie said, standing up. “You’re reading and I’m supposed to be sleeping. Instead of, you know, touching myself or something so I’ll end up in Purgatory.”

“You don’t believe in Hell, but you believe in Purgatory?”

“I do. That’s weird, right? I kind of like the thought that there’s a process you have to go through to get into Heaven. I mean, I had to fill out paperwork just to return a pair of disintegrated panties. Heaven has to have some sort of returns policy, right?”

“Red tape. No escaping it.”

“I should take a book back with me to bed. Something to help me keep my hands off myself. Any suggestions?”

“What do you like to read?” Elle asked, the standard bookseller question when any customer asked for a recommendation.

“I’m guessing there aren’t any romance novels in here?” Kyrie glanced up at the shelves.

“Nope. Trust me, I looked,” Elle said. “If you want anything fun to read, you’ll have to write it yourself.”

“Bethany was the writer in the family. I’m a reader. Any romances in there?” Kyrie nodded at her book of mythology.

“Sort of. There’s Leda and the Swan. More bestiality than romance, though. Psyche and Cupid’s pretty good. Daphne and Apollo. They’re my favorite. The original love-hate relationship.”

“Who were they?”

“Daphne was a forest nymph and beautiful beyond imagining. Apollo was the god of music, reason and healing. He came upon Cupid one day playing with his bow and arrows—”

“Masturbating?”

“No, I think these were literal bows and arrows.”

“Continue the story please. I’ll adjust my mental images,” Kyrie said.

“Apollo teased little Cupid about his prowess with his bow.”

“Are we sure they’re not talking about penises?”

“Might be in the subtext,” Elle said. “Apollo teased Cupid about his little bow and arrow or maybe his penis. I don’t know. So Cupid, pissed off at Apollo for his arrogance, picks up two arrows. One is tipped in lead. One is tipped in gold. He shoots the arrow tipped in lead into the heart of Daphne the beautiful forest nymph. The arrow tipped in gold he shoots into the heart of Apollo. At once Apollo is seized by desperate love for Daphne. And she is seized by hatred of Apollo. He chases after her through the forest while she runs from him as fast as she can. But Apollo gains on her so she prays to her father the river god to turn her into something so Apollo can’t have her. Her father turns her into a laurel tree. From there and ever after, the laurel became the symbol of Apollo.”

“Wait. This girl turns into a tree rather than let Apollo have her?” Kyrie asked. “That’s crazy.”

“I know. But what do you expect from a patriarchal society that prized virginity so highly? Better a woman be a tree or a stone or some kind of mindless but pure object than be sullied by sex.”

“Terrible ending,” Kyrie said. “Very disappointing.”

“I didn’t write it. If I wrote it, there would be much more sex in the story.”

“Then write it.”

“What?”

“Write it,” Kyrie said. “Fix the ending.”

“You want me to rewrite the story of Daphne and Apollo?” Elle looked at Kyrie as if she was crazy. After all the talk about spiders, hand jobs, mazes, Hell and penises, Elle was starting to think Kyrie was.

“You said if I want something fun to read, I’d have to write it myself. I can’t write so you write it for me.”

“I’m not going to write you a book.”

“My sister wrote a book for me.”

“You’re using your dead sister to guilt trip me into writing a book for you.”

“She would have wanted it this way. Come on, Elle. Don’t you want something fun to read, too?”

“I’d give my left arm for a single copy of The Story of O right now. In French or English. Preferably fully illustrated.”

“You write me the story, and I’ll do something nice for you,” Kyrie said.

“What?”