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A Sketch.

“The seduction of Mr. Sylvester Graham was delayed due to the copious amount of ‘Graham Crackers’ the gentleman decided to eat as the attempt was made,” Mrs. Meredith James told the scuba diver hovering in the air of the family library, the two of them alone and encircled by the stacks of books, the shadows interlaced with the geometry of the room, and the tall windows illuminated by the wan light of the garden that reminded scuba diver for a split second of the green that could be seen to emerge like a vine from Dublin city limits if someone were to walk from the center of the city outwards. “When I tried to advance again, he gave up eating the crackers altogether and began to simply throw them in my direction.”

Dr. Alfred Kinsey took a hit of his scuba mask, let said mask hang near the side of his mouth, and looked up to the surface of his present, where he could see his assistant peering down at him and his flippers, clipboard in hand.

“You’re more than welcome to sit and make yourself comfortable, you know,” Mrs. James said, gesturing to a room full of empty chairs. “Or, uh, walk.”

Kinsey stared at her and offered a polite glimpse around the room.

“Unfortunately, that would run against the grain of how the rules of this have been explained to me.”

“Very well.”

“Did he explain to you why the crackers, though?”

“The crackers? No.”

“What about the bread?”

“What about the bread?”

“He doesn’t like white bread.”

“And he’s of interest to you because … ?”

“I felt like I had to ask.”

He tugged on the rope. He went up.

Mrs. James looked about the room, gave a heave of a sigh, and left.