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toward the door. “Really. I just need to get some sleep.”
    “I can tuck you in,” she says, and I can feel her eyes on my back.
    “It’s okay. Thanks.”
    At the door, she hugs me again, and this time I kiss her cheek, ridiculously proud of myself for having resisted the temptation. I’ve never slept with a married woman, less out of principle than because it simply never came up, but something tells me that now would be a bad time to try it. Dave Potter, Laney’s husband, is a lawyer in private practice and partners with Mike Sandleman, the man who will be marrying my sister Debbie in a few weeks. Did you follow that? The interconnectedness of everything? Your wife dies dramatically and your life becomes a goddamn soap opera.
    Still, Laney has those ridiculously sexy lips, like two tapered pillows glossed to a slick sheen, and since I’m not going to sleep with her, I don’t see the harm in letting the corner of my mouth accidentally graze them as I kiss her cheek. “Thanks for everything, Laney.”
    “I’m always here, Doug, for anything you need,” she says meaningfully, looking into my eyes before she goes. “You know that, right?”
    “I do.”
    Her smile is a naked confirmation that something is happening between us, that it’s there for the taking. And I feel the smallest pang of regret as I watch her get into her car, can still feel the soft fullness of those lips on mine. I don’t know why she’s offering herself up to this possibility, could be that her marriage is lousy, could be that she’s lonely, or bored, or that Dave is as dull in bed as he is out of it, but whatever the reason, I think the wisest course is to maintain the status quo. Because, ultimately, I would just have to break it off and she’d feel used and I’d feel bad, and while I don’t know exactly how it would all play out, I’m pretty sure it would mean the end of Tuesday nights with Laney Potter. And in the final analysis, I think I would miss her meatloaf more than anything else.

    Still, I’m bummed when she’s gone. I want to touch someone, to kiss and lick and suck on them and hear them writhe and surge beneath me. I want to taste the tart sweetness of a woman’s mouth, want to be naked and sweating and tangled up in the hot wetness of Laney Potter’s heaving thighs.
    “I’m horny,” I complain to Claire over the phone. We talk every day.
    “And you feel guilty about it.”
    “I guess.”
    “Don’t.”
    “Okay. I’m glad we had this talk.”
    “I’m serious, Doug. It’s perfectly natural. Everybody fucks.”
    “It seems kind of soon.”
    “To get married, maybe. To date, possibly. But to get laid? That’s purely physiological. It’s no different than taking a dump.”
    “Somehow, I’ve never connected the two.”
    “It’s exactly the same thing. Something building up inside of you that needs release.”
    “It just doesn’t seem right.”
    “Get over yourself, little brother. If some horny hausfrau is willing to make booty calls, then pick up the damn phone and get busy. You spent the better part of your life wishing you had a number to call for something like that. Well, now you do.”
    “It can’t end well.”
    “It hasn’t even started and you’re already worried about the ending,” Claire says exasperatedly. “Look at it this way. The first few times you have sex, it’s going to suck. You’re like a born-again virgin, carrying all this emotional baggage. You’ll have trouble keeping it up, or you’ll come too soon, or not at all, and you’ll get all depressed afterwards. So you might as well get all that shit over with now, so that it’s out of your system by the time you meet someone real.”
    “Thanks for the confidence booster.”
    Claire laughs. “It’s what I do.”
    I sigh. “She’s a married woman.”
    Claire sighs right back at me, mimicking my resigned tone. “You live in New Radford, little brother. That’s pretty much the only kind you’ll find