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tightened into an unconvincing smile. “It’s really not worth fighting about.”
    “Who’s fighting?” said Gregory. “We’re having a calm discussion.”
    Randall drained his martini.
    “Let’s just watch the movie.”
    It was already after ten. Ruth tried to make a graceful exit, but Randall insisted she at least watch the first ten minutes, where Margaret did the hilarious imitation of her crazy Korean mother. She reluctantly agreed, but then got sucked in and stayed to the bitter end, by which point both her hosts had fallen asleep—Gregory dozing in an armchair, hands resting on his belly, and Randall snoring softly on the couch, his face naked, almost babyish, without his glasses. It didn’t look to Ruth like anyone would be breaking out the dog collars anytime soon. She kissed them both good night and showed herself to the door.
    RUTH MADE a point of sleeping in the nude when her daughters were out of the house. It was a simple indulgence, and, sadly enough, the erotic highlight of her week. This private ritual—shedding her clothes in the dark, slipping between the cool sheets, savoring the soft touch of cotton against her skin—had come to seem like a kind of foreplay, automatically nudging her toward that vibrant fantasy realm that, by default, was her sole source of sexual pleasure. And if these fantasies sometimes inspired her to break out the vibrator she kept hidden in a shoe box on a high shelf in her closet, well, so what? It was her body—her lean, muscular, lovely, unloved body—and didn’t it deserve to feel good every once in a while, especially if there was no one around to overhear the humming of the busy little machine, or the grateful cries of a woman who had no one to thank but herself?
    Tonight, though, her mind was elsewhere. She lay in the dark, exhausted and wired at the same time, her eyes wide open, the weight of solitude pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. She missed her daughters, wondered if the house would always feel this empty when they left for college, vast and unmoored, ready to lift away from its foundation like a hot-air balloon. She comforted herself with the thought that she still had seven years before Maggie graduated high school, longenough to make some changes. Maybe there’d be a man by then; maybe the exodus of the girls would feel more like a honeymoon than an abandonment, a transition from one rich phase of her life to the next.
    Maybe.
    Because it was just too creepy to consider the alternative: nothing changing at all, everything shrinking into the sad belated recognition that the best days had come and gone without her even realizing it. Ruth’s mother had sounded this note a lot in the weeks before she died, a kind of desperate nostalgia for everything she hadn’t appreciated when she’d had the chance.
    “Remember that house in Manasquan?” she’d say, propped up in the hospital bed, clutching the “pain button” that allowed her to dispense her own morphine. “The one we rented in what … 1978? That was a fun vacation. You enjoyed that, right?”
    “I did,” Ruth would say, because it would have been cruel to remind her of the truth, which was that they’d all been disappointed by something they’d been dreaming about for years. The house they rented was small and smelled bad; the beach had been closed for two days because of medical waste that had washed ashore. But mainly, that vacation had just come too late. Ruth was a teenager by then, a claustrophobic adolescent trapped in close quarters with her family, just gritting her teeth and waiting for it to be over. The only good times she remembered involved sneaking out at night with her older sister and smoking cigarettes on the boardwalk.
    “It was so lovely by the ocean,” her mother whispered, though it seemed to Ruth that she’d spent most of the week inside that cramped bungalow, cooking and cleaning and watching TV, the exact same things she did at home. “Let’s go