Page 78 of Lucky Night

Wait, she said.

She slipped inside.

He waited.

She didn’t come back.

Well, he thought blearily, stumbling home across his lawn later that night, that’s that. She came to her senses, a delayed but perfectly reasonable reaction to having some pathetic slob’s desperation foisted on her. He hoped she didn’t feel assaulted, or regret it too much.

He hoped she wouldn’t talk.

He was exalted and more depressed than ever. He would never do anything like that again. It was too risky. It was wrong.

Three days later, she texted him. He still doesn’t know how she got his number.

And six years later, here they are. She’s improved his life so much.Changed me fundamentally?No, but she’s been such a balmfor the lack of touch, of warmth. For the fewer tomorrows than yesterdays. She vanquished the malaise, helping him to be a better human. A better version of who he’s supposed to be when she’s not around.

Life works now. His marriage works. He’ll have to find a way to keep them both working. But she should leave Tom. She can do so much better.

He’ll find her a good divorce lawyer. The best.

Thirteen

Jenny, please put the damn phone away.

He’s back on the bed, legs outstretched. She’s hovering by the window, watching another video. She looks troubled.

He wishes the fire department guy had been more reassuring.

I’m sorry, she says,I—

Look at these fools. He points at the television, where the two studio anchors are yapping about the Oscars. They haven’t cut back to the fire for twenty minutes. Because nothing’s happening. It’s a waiting game at this point.

He hopes he’s right. He plumps a pillow for her. She takes a seat beside him, setting the phone on the nightstand.

Let’s talk about something else, he says. Do you and the Crypto King still sleep together?

Nick.

Let me rephrase. How’s your marital sex life?

Good, she says. It’s very…solid.

Solid. So, you enjoy it? You don’t ask him about the tuckpointing?

Oh, I ask him about the tuckpointing all the time, she says. It’s our dirty talk.

Is that right?

All those crumbling bricks, and tight crevices? She wiggles a little. Ooh, baby.

Nice, he says, heading for the minibar, not to get a drink but so that he can covertly adjust himself, because fucking hell if she hasn’t made him hard by talking about tuckpointing.

Tight crevices!

You do all right then, he says, stooping to peer into the fridge. You never need to fake orgasms with him, or fake faking orgasms, for utterly obscure reasons?

Is there something you’d like to talk about, Nick?

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