Page 7

“That’s depressingly accurate.”

“Do you actually want a relationship?”

“I think so.”

“That wasn’t convincing.”

It’s new. I’m not very practiced at saying it out loud.

“Wanting sex and wanting a relationship aren’t necessarily the same thing.”

I wipe my fingers on my napkin and take another sip of coffee. Blair waits.

I know that wait. She isn’t going to rescue me from the question by asking another one.

“Fine,” I say. “Yes, I miss sex.”

“When was the last time?”

“Jesus.”

“I’m serious.”

“Dave.”

Her humor disappears. “Nobody since?”

“No.”

It’s been four years. I’ve noticed attractive men in that time. Once, maybe a year after Dave died, a man smiled at me in the produce section and I smiled back before realizing he was flirting. I remember standing there with a bag of lemons in my hand, suddenly aware that I could keep the conversation going if I wanted to. I didn’t. I wished him a good afternoon and went home. Blair doesn’t comment on the four years, which is one of the reasons I like her.

“Do you miss it?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Sex specifically?”

“Yes.”

“Good sex?”

“That’s exactly what I just said. Dave and I had good sex.”

“I wasn’t insulting Dave.”

“I know.”

“He seemed like a good man.”

“He was. We were together for twenty-five years. We knew what worked. There wasn’t anything particularly exotic about it, but I wasn’t lying there wishing somebody would bring in circus equipment.”

Blair laughs into her glass. “That’s a distressingly specific denial.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

My plate is mostly empty now, and I push it farther away. “I miss sex. I miss having someone. I miss stupid things too. Telling somebody what happened at work before I’ve even taken my shoes off. Having another person in the kitchen while I’m cooking. Arguing about whether we really need to leave for the airport three hours early.”