He moved on, leaving Eve slightly deflated. She knew Gennaro meant well, but there was something about that question—What’s new?—that never failed to depress her. Maybe she was being paranoid, but it always felt like an intrusion, an indirect way of inquiring about her romantic life. And when she replied, Just work, that was code for I’m still alone, as if she were apologizing for being single, as if there was something wrong with that.
On the other hand, at least he’d bothered to ask, which implied that he thought there was still a possibility that something might be new. That was a point in her favor. And it wasn’t even true that there was nothing new in her life. For one thing, she was taking a class in Gender Studies and actually learning something. And, oh yeah, she’d also gone and gotten herself addicted to internet porn, not that that was anything to brag about.
She understood that it was a little extreme, or maybe just premature, to call her problem an addiction—it had only been going on for a month or so—but what other label could you use when you did something every night, whether you wanted to or not? Tonight she knew she would go home and visit the Milfateria—it felt like a fact, not a choice—probably checking out the Lesbo MILFs, her current go-to category. Last week it was Blowjob MILFs—lots and lots of blowjobs—and the week before that had been a more eclectic period—spanking, threesomes, butt play—just to get a sense of what was out there.
Addiction was a bleak word, though, a hundred percent negative. Maybe habit was a better term. People were addicted to heroin. But their morning coffee was just a habit.
I have a porn habit, Eve thought, trying on the word for size.
There were definitely some upsides to it. She was having a lot more orgasms than she used to, which was helping her sleep better, and improving her complexion. Several people had commented on how good her skin looked. She was also picking up some techniques that might come in handy down the road, if she ever did find a partner. For example, she’d learned that her blowjob skills were seriously out-of-date. When Eve was young, a can-do attitude—really, just making the effort—had been more than enough to earn a passing grade. These days the bar was a lot higher.
But there was a big downside to porn, beyond the feminist objections that still made her uneasy. The real problem was spiritual: it made you feel like you were wasting your life. This wasn’t so much a matter of lost time—though that was part of it, all those hours you squandered clicking on video after video, trying to find the one that would light up your brain—as it was a matter of lost opportunities. Watching too much porn made you feel like you were out in the cold with your nose pressed against a window, watching strangers at a party, wishing you could join them. But the weird thing was, you could join them. All you had to do was open the door and walk inside, and everybody would be happy to see you. So why were you still outside, standing on your tiptoes, feeling sorry for yourself?
Thank God, she thought, when her lasagna finally arrived.
*
It only took a minute for Amanda to reactivate her Tinder account. Her old matches were gone, but she didn’t care about that. She used the same profile photos as before—they’d never let her down—and stuck with her tried-and-true tagline: If you’re nice, I’ll show you my other ones. She set the match distance for fifteen miles and the age range for 35–55. That was the key, in her experience. The older guys were out there, checking their phones every two minutes, just itching to be called out of retirement. And they’d happily drive through a blizzard with a flat tire if a woman in her twenties was waiting on the other end.
Amanda understood that this was a bad idea, not to mention a blatant violation of her recently instituted no-hookup policy. Tinder was like tequila—fun today, sad tomorrow—but sometimes you didn’t have a choice. That unexpected reunion with Trish Lozano had really messed with her self-esteem. The thought of going home and eating a salad in front of the TV had triggered a wave of self-pity that bordered on rage.
That’s the highlight of my day? A fucking salad?
It would have been fine, or at least marginally tolerable, if Trish had still been Trish, a grown-up version of her teenaged self, cute and predictable, flaunting a tacky rock, bragging about her fratboy stockbroker boyfriend. At least that way Amanda would have preserved her sense of intellectual superiority, the illusion that she was an adventurous bohemian who’d chosen the road less traveled.
But Trish—Beckett—was a completely new person, living the kind of life Amanda had always imagined for herself. My fiancé’s a cinematographer! How the fuck did that happen? It just seemed so unfair—the girl who’d been deliriously happy in high school was the one who’d reinvented herself, moving to a glamorous city and falling in love with an artist who loved her back, while Amanda, who’d dreamed of nothing but escape, had ended up right back where she started, with only a few stupid tattoos to show for all her trouble.
I work at the Senior Center. They have a pretty good lecture series.
She’d felt so stupid saying that, she’d wanted to die. And then Trish had had the gall to hug her, to fucking apologize for her happiness, which was way worse than bragging about it.
I am so getting laid tonight, Amanda thought, before they’d even let go of each other.
*
Her match arrived in less than an hour, knocking furtively on the front door. She studied him through the peephole, amazed, as always, that this was even possible, that you could swipe at a photo of a stranger, and the flesh-and-blood person would show up on your doorstep. This one was a little heavier than she’d expected—he claimed to be an avid cyclist—but he bore an otherwise reassuring resemblance to his profile pic, which had been taken in an apple orchard on a sunny day. It showed him standing beneath a fruit-laden tree, squinting into the camera, smiling in a way that made him look worried rather than happy.
His name was Bobby and he seemed charmingly ill-at-ease in the living room, like a teenager picking up his prom date. He wanted to know if it was all right to keep his shoes on, and asked permission before sitting down on the couch. He said no to her offer of a beer, then changed his mind a few seconds later, but only if it wasn’t too much trouble. Middle-aged men were often like this, tentative and overly polite. The guys her own age had more of a swagger, as if they were stopping by to pick up a well-deserved award.
“How was the traffic?” she asked.
“Piece of cake,” he said. “Only a problem at rush hour.”
“Well, thanks for making the trip.”
“Thanks for hosting.” He surveyed the décor with a skeptical expression, taking in the matching gray furniture, the gas fireplace, the vases and baskets full of dried flowers. “This your place?”