Mrs. Fletcher(21)

Her reaction was the same every time she started a session: Ugh! How could they do it? How could people expose themselves like this? Just the sight of all that naked flesh was overwhelming and off-putting. She cringed at the unimaginative dirty talk and the predictability of the action. She especially hated the clips that focused solely on the genitalia, the close-ups of penises and vaginas. So many assholes. She needed to see faces, to get a sense of the person she was watching. That was the only thing that mattered.

It was like a blind date or a party. Some people you liked right away, some you didn’t. Some you weren’t sure about. The saucy soccer mom was horrible, a giggly woman performing a clumsy striptease with the TV blaring in the background. Eve clicked out of that, tried “Swedish MILF Pink Dildo!” then “Italian Wife Deepthroat” and “Sexy Abigail Morning Fuck.” None of them did anything for her.

But there was always another one. And eventually—tonight it was “Classy Lady Loves That Cock!”—something would click. The couple on her screen would seem inspired, or even blessed—you could see how alive and happy and unself-conscious they were—and maybe you envied them a little, but you also wanted to thank them for sharing this moment with you, and then that last barrier would crumble, and maybe for a minute or two you’d feel that you were right there with them, like when you heard a good song on the radio and the next thing you knew you were singing along.





PART TWO


The End of Reluctance





Trouble in Sunset Acres


It was only Thursday afternoon, but Amanda Olney could already feel the weekend coming on like an illness—a mild case of the flu or some mid-level gastrointestinal distress, the kind of ailment that didn’t leave you bedridden but kept you confined to the couch, unfit for human interaction. You just had to wait it out in your sweatpants, bingeing on Netflix and herbal tea, a forty-eight-hour quarantine until Monday rolled around and you could head back to work.

She understood how pathetic that sounded, exactly the opposite of how you were supposed to feel if you were a youngish single person with an office job that paid less-than-peanuts and made a mockery of your expensive education; a job, moreover, that required you to spend a good part of your life in the company of old people, some of them physically and/or mentally infirm, and many others just plain ornery. You were supposed to love the weekend, that all-too-brief window of freedom, your only chance to wash away the stink of boredom with a blast of fun. Use it to drink and fuck yourself into a state of blissful oblivion, the memory of which would power you through the work week that followed, at the end of which you could do it all over again, ad infinitum, or at least until you met the right guy (or gal) and settled down.

Well, Amanda had tried all that, and it had depressed the shit out of her. Better to be a nun than to spend every Sunday beating herself up about the bad choices she’d made on Friday and Saturday night. In fact, at this particular juncture in her life, she wouldn’t have minded if the weekend were abolished altogether. She would have been fine coming to work seven days a week, barricading herself behind her beige metal desk, making phone calls and filling out paperwork, finding budget-conscious ways to keep the geezers of Haddington occupied while they ran out the clock on their golden years.

Aside from organizing events and activities at the Senior Center, Amanda was responsible for putting out a monthly newsletter called Haddington Happenings. One of the regular features was a chatty roundup of notable events that had transpired since the last issue—the birth of Eleanor Testa’s seventh grandchild, Lou LeGrande’s excellent recovery from open heart surgery, Dick and Marilyn Hauser’s golden anniversary. She was adding a few items to the list—Three cheers for Joy Maloney, who came in fifth in the Seventy-and-Over Division at last month’s 5K Fun Run at Finley Park. Way to go, Joy! You’re an inspiration to us all! And congratulations to Art Weber on the ten-pound bluefish he caught on Cape Cod. It was almost as big as the one that got away, right Art?—when Eve Fletcher poked her head into the tiny windowless office.

“Hey,” she said. “Did you figure out the bus thing?”

Amanda nodded, pleased to be the bearer of good news.

“It took some doing, but I finally got through to the owner and explained the situation. He says they’ll give us a motor coach for the same price.”

“With a working rest room?”

“That’s what he said.”

Eve heaved a theatrical sigh of relief.

“Thank God. There was no way I was gonna put a bunch of old people on a school bus for a trip to Foxwoods. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“We’re all set on our end,” Amanda assured her. “The rest is up to Frank Sinatra Jr.”

“I’m sure he’ll be great.” Eve’s voice was confident, but her face expressed an alternative viewpoint. “I wish I could join you, but I have a class that night.”

“No worries,” Amanda told her. “I got this.”

“Excellent.” Eve brought her hands together in a soundless clap. “Well, enjoy the rest of your day. I’m checking out a little early.”

“Lucky you.”

“Not really. I’m going to a wake. Roy Rafferty.”

“Oh.” Amanda grimaced in sympathy. “I heard about that. Poor man.”