One Fifth Avenue

James bought her a TV—a sixteen-inch Panasonic—that they placed on the windowsill.

On the day before James was to go back out on book tour, he turned up at her apartment earlier than usual. It was eleven o’clock, but she was still sleeping, her head resting on the down pillow she’d bought from ABC Carpet, along with a down comforter that James suspected cost over a thousand dollars. When he questioned her about it, however, she said she’d bought it on sale for a hundred. He didn’t expect her to sleep without covers, did he? No, he did not, he agreed, and let it go.

“What time is it?” she asked now, rolling over in her bed.

“It’s almost noon,” he said. He found the fact that she was still in bed slightly annoying, and wondered what she’d been up to the night before that would cause her to sleep till midday. Or perhaps she was depressed. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning. First thing,” he explained. “I wanted to say goodbye. And to make sure you were okay.”

“When will I see you again?” She stretched, extending her arms up to the ceiling. She was wearing an orange tank top with nothing underneath.

“Not for a month.”

“Where are you going?” she asked in alarm.

“England, Scotland, Ireland, Paris, Germany, Australia, and New Zealand.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Terrible for us but good for the book,” James said.

She threw back the comforter and patted the mattress. “Snuggle me,” she said. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I don’t think…” James said cautiously, despite his beating heart.

“It’s only a hug, James,” she pointed out. “No one can object to that.”

He got into bed next to her, awkwardly arranging his long body so several inches of space remained between them. She turned to face him, curling up her knees into his groin. Her breath was pungent with the lingering smell of vodka and cigarettes, and he wondered once again where she’d been the night before. Had she had sex with someone?

“You’re funny,” she said.

“Am I?”

“Look at you.” She giggled. “You’re so stiff.”

“I’m not sure we should be doing this,” he said.

“We’re not doing anything,” she countered. “But you want to, don’t you?”

“I’m married,” he whispered.

“Your wife never has to know.” She trailed her hand down his chest and touched his penis. “You’re hard,” she said.

She started kissing him on the mouth, thrusting her fat tongue between his teeth. James was too startled to resist. This was so different from Mindy’s kisses, which were dry little pecks. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d kissed someone like this, marveling that people still did this—that he could still do this—this making-out thing. And Lola’s skin was so soft, like a baby’s, he thought, touching her arms. Her neck was smooth and unwrinkled. He tentatively touched her breasts through the fabric of her shirt, feeling her nipples erect. He rolled on top of her, pushing himself up on his arms to stare down at her face. Should he go further? He hadn’t made love in so long, he wondered if he would remember the moves.

“I want you inside me,” she said, touching the mound of his penis. “I want your fat cock in my wet pussy.”

The mere suggestion of this sex act was too much, and as he was trying to unzip his jeans, the inevitable happened. He came. “Damn,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” She sat up.

“I just…you know.” He slid his hand into his jeans and felt the tell-tale wetness. “Fuck!”

She got onto her knees behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only the first time.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are so sweet,” he said. “You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.”

“Am I?” she said, jumping off the bed. She pulled on a pair of cashmere sweatpants. “James?” she asked in a syrupy voice. “Since you’re leaving and I won’t see you for a month…”

“Do you need some money?” he said. He reached into his pants pocket. “I’ve only got sixty dollars.”