Mrs. Fletcher(27)

Population: Sixty Million

Religion: Roman Catholic

Language: Italian

Brendan had always gotten a kick out of that last one. What a shocker, he’d say. Italians speak Italian. Never woulda guessed. Thinking he’d appreciate the reference, she texted him a picture.

Dinner at Gennaro’s, she wrote.

Cool, he replied, with gratifying promptness. Who with?

Just me. Wish you were here.

Me too I miss that chicken parm!

It got easier once her wine arrived, a house chianti as unchanging as the placemat. She’d only taken a couple of sips when Gennaro emerged from the kitchen and made his way through the restaurant, going table to table like a politician. He was a sweetheart, a diminutive, blue-eyed Italian with a ruddy complexion and a thick head of silver hair, one of those slender continental types who managed to look elegant even in a dark green apron. When he spotted Eve, his face broke into a big, incredulous grin.

“Ay, long time no see. Where’s your boy?”

“College,” she told him. “Freshman year.”

“Smart kid.” Gennaro tapped his skull with the tip of his index finger. “How’s he like it?”

“Pretty well. Maybe a little too much for his own good.”

Gennaro waved his hand, as if batting away an insect.

“Ah. He’s young. Let him enjoy himself.” He peered at Eve, his eyes narrowing with concern. “What about you? What’s new?”

“Not much,” she said. “Just work. Keeping busy.”

Gennaro shrugged with good-natured resignation.

“What can you do? Gotta pay the tuition.” He patted her supportively on the shoulder. “Nice to see you, pretty lady. You come by anytime, we take good care of you.”

He moved on, leaving Eve slightly deflated. She knew Gennaro meant well, but there was something about that question—What’s new?—that never failed to depress her. Maybe she was being paranoid, but it always felt like an intrusion, an indirect way of inquiring about her romantic life. And when she replied, Just work, that was code for I’m still alone, as if she were apologizing for being single, as if there was something wrong with that.

On the other hand, at least he’d bothered to ask, which implied that he thought there was still a possibility that something might be new. That was a point in her favor. And it wasn’t even true that there was nothing new in her life. For one thing, she was taking a class in Gender Studies and actually learning something. And, oh yeah, she’d also gone and gotten herself addicted to internet porn, not that that was anything to brag about.

She understood that it was a little extreme, or maybe just premature, to call her problem an addiction—it had only been going on for a month or so—but what other label could you use when you did something every night, whether you wanted to or not? Tonight she knew she would go home and visit the Milfateria—it felt like a fact, not a choice—probably checking out the Lesbo MILFs, her current go-to category. Last week it was Blowjob MILFs—lots and lots of blowjobs—and the week before that had been a more eclectic period—spanking, threesomes, butt play—just to get a sense of what was out there.

Addiction was a bleak word, though, a hundred percent negative. Maybe habit was a better term. People were addicted to heroin. But their morning coffee was just a habit.

I have a porn habit, Eve thought, trying on the word for size.

There were definitely some upsides to it. She was having a lot more orgasms than she used to, which was helping her sleep better, and improving her complexion. Several people had commented on how good her skin looked. She was also picking up some techniques that might come in handy down the road, if she ever did find a partner. For example, she’d learned that her blowjob skills were seriously out-of-date. When Eve was young, a can-do attitude—really, just making the effort—had been more than enough to earn a passing grade. These days the bar was a lot higher.

But there was a big downside to porn, beyond the feminist objections that still made her uneasy. The real problem was spiritual: it made you feel like you were wasting your life. This wasn’t so much a matter of lost time—though that was part of it, all those hours you squandered clicking on video after video, trying to find the one that would light up your brain—as it was a matter of lost opportunities. Watching too much porn made you feel like you were out in the cold with your nose pressed against a window, watching strangers at a party, wishing you could join them. But the weird thing was, you could join them. All you had to do was open the door and walk inside, and everybody would be happy to see you. So why were you still outside, standing on your tiptoes, feeling sorry for yourself?

Thank God, she thought, when her lasagna finally arrived.

*

It only took a minute for Amanda to reactivate her Tinder account. Her old matches were gone, but she didn’t care about that. She used the same profile photos as before—they’d never let her down—and stuck with her tried-and-true tagline: If you’re nice, I’ll show you my other ones. She set the match distance for fifteen miles and the age range for 35–55. That was the key, in her experience. The older guys were out there, checking their phones every two minutes, just itching to be called out of retirement. And they’d happily drive through a blizzard with a flat tire if a woman in her twenties was waiting on the other end.