Mrs. Fletcher(90)

She hadn’t meant to offend him. She’d thought of the food as a peace offering, a clever way of breaking her silence—letting him know that he was on her mind—without actually saying anything that would get her into trouble. But to him—she could see it so clearly now—it had been a taunt. She’d walked right up to his front door—so close, right there—but hadn’t gone inside. She’d withheld herself, and given him some greasy leftovers instead. No wonder he was upset.

My bad, she thought.

*

Eve couldn’t sleep. Her brain was foggy. She stared at her message for a long time before pressing Send.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.

It was 2:14 in the morning, but Julian answered right away.

Why didn’t you come in?

Lights were out. Didn’t want to wake you.

I’m awake now

It’s late. I have to work tomorrow.

I cant stop thinking about u

Then, because she didn’t respond:

My parents get home on Thursday

Then, in case she hadn’t done the math:

Tomorrow’s our last chance

Then, because she still hadn’t responded: I want you so fucking bad I’m going crazy Eve stared at her phone. She could feel his desire all the way from outer space, bouncing off a satellite, beaming straight into her hand.

He was still waiting.

He’d been waiting all week.

That had to count for something.

All right, she told him. You win.

I do??? What’s the prize???

Eve was suddenly exhausted.

Go to sleep, Julian. I’ll see you tomorrow.





Garage Door


Eve felt surprisingly alert and well rested in the morning. She’d only slept for a few hours, but it had been a deep and restorative sleep, the best she’d had in days. All the agitation she’d been feeling—the cumulative weight of her indecision—had fallen away. What remained was a fizzy, almost buoyant feeling of anticipation.

I’m doing this, she told herself. It’s going to happen.

She knew she’d be working late, so she chose her underwear with care, in case she decided to head straight to Julian’s from the Senior Center. It wasn’t too elaborate—just a red lace bra and matching panties—but it looked pretty on her. She knew he’d approve.

You win, she thought.

She could see it in her head, a romantic scene from a foreign movie. A beautiful woman of a certain age pulling into a dark garage, the door sliding down behind her. She tiptoes through the silent house, heading upstairs, into a candlelit bedroom where a sensitive young man awaits her. She stands in the doorway, basking in his appreciative gaze, and slowly begins to unbutton her blouse . . .

This is the prize.

Her clothes on the floor. Their bodies coming together.

But then what? What would happen when it was over, when she got dressed and went home? That part of the movie was a black hole, the one thing she couldn’t afford to think about if she was going to make good on her promise—to do the thing she badly wanted to do—because he was waiting for her, and it was their last chance, and she was the prize.

*

It helped that it was the second Wednesday of the month—the day of the March lecture—which meant that she was a lot busier than usual, taking care of the last-minute tasks that were normally the responsibility of the events coordinator. She had to run to Staples to pick up the hard-backed poster to place near the main entrance—she’d forgotten all about it—and stop at the supermarket to buy cookies and soft drinks for the reception. She had to set up the folding chairs in the lecture room and make sure the sound system was working, all the while fielding several calls from the guest of honor, a New Hampshire–based journalist named Franklin Russett, who’d written a book called Sweet Liquid Gold: In Praise of Maple Syrup. Mostly, though, she was trying to drum up an audience, buttonholing every senior she saw, reminding them of the start time, and talking up the speaker, who was in high demand on the regional lecture circuit.

She was glad that Amanda wasn’t here for this. Franklin Russett and maple syrup represented everything she’d hated about the lecture series, and had hoped to disrupt. But they’d tried it Amanda’s way, and it hadn’t worked. A lot of seniors had been upset by Margo’s presentation—they’d found it disturbing and inappropriate and even appalling—and the complaints had made it all the way to the Town Council. Eve knew the entire program was under the microscope; she needed to repair the damage that had been done to its reputation and protect the funding that had allowed it to become such a beloved institution in the first place. All she wanted was a return to form—an upbeat talk about an insipid subject, a reasonably pleasant evening that no one would ever have to think about again.

*

There were four rest rooms at the Senior Center—the main men’s and women’s rooms, an employees-only facility, and a spacious, wheelchair-accessible bathroom that was in almost constant use throughout the day. It was the go-to spot for diabetics to inject themselves with insulin, and for people with ostomy pouches to attend to their sanitary needs. Sufferers of constipation or diarrhea also appreciated the privacy afforded by a single toilet and a locked door, as did a large group of people (mostly men) who liked to hunker down with a crossword puzzle while nature worked its leisurely, unpredictable magic.