The Leftovers

and not a boy from the neighborhood.
    “I wore dresses sometimes. But I wasn’t a little princess or anything.”
    “Were you a happy kid?”
    “Happy enough, I guess. I had a couple of bad years in middle school.”
    “Why?”
    “You know. Braces, acne. The usual.”
    “Did you have friends?”
    “Sure. I mean, I wasn’t the most popular kid in the world, but I had friends.”
    “What were their names?”
    God, Nora thought. He’s relentless. He’d been grilling her like this ever since they’d sat down, as if he were a reporter writing an article for the local paper—“My Dinner with Nora: The Heartbreaking Saga of a Pathetic Woman.” The questions were benign enough— What did you do today? Did you ever play field hockey? Have you had any broken bones? —but they annoyed her nonetheless. She could tell they were just warm-ups, stand-ins for the questions he really wanted to ask: What happened that night? How did you go on living? What’s it like to be you?
    “That was a long time ago, Kevin.”
    “Not that long.”
    She spotted the waiter moving in their direction, a short, olive-skinned man with the face of a silent movie idol and a plate in each hand. Finally, she thought, but he just floated by, on his way to another table.
    “You really don’t remember their names?”
    “I remember their names,” she said, speaking more sharply than she’d meant to. “I’m not brain damaged.”
    “Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to make conversation.”
    “I know.” Nora felt like a jerk for snapping at him. “It’s not your fault.”
    He glanced worriedly toward the kitchen. “I wonder what’s taking so long.”
    “It’s a busy night,” she said. “Their names were Liz, Lizzie, and Alexa.”
    *   *   *
    MAX STARTED undressing as soon as Jill shut the door, as if she were a doctor who didn’t like to be kept waiting. He was wearing a wool sweater over a T-shirt, but he removed both garments in a single hurried tug, the static electricity causing his wispy hair to crackle and float up into a boyish halo. His chest was narrow compared to Nick’s, smooth and unmuscled, his belly taut and sunken, but not in a way that made you think of sexy underwear models.
    “It’s been a while,” he said, unbuckling his pants, letting them slide down his skinny thighs and pool around his ankles.
    “Not that long. Just a week or so.”
    “Way longer than that,” he said, stepping out of his jeans and kicking them against the wall, on top of his shirt and sweater. “Twelve days.”
    “But who’s counting, right?”
    “Yeah.” His voice was flat and bitter. “Who’s counting.”
    He was still mad at her, offended by the eagerness with which she’d pounced on Nick the moment he became available. But that was the game. You had to make choices, express preferences, cause and suffer pain. Every now and then, if you were lucky the way Nick and Aimee had been lucky, your first choice chose you as well. But most of the time it was messier than that.
    “Well, I’m here now,” she told him.
    “That’s right.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling off his socks and tossing them onto the pile of discarded clothes. “You get the consolation prize.”
    It would have been easy enough to contradict him, to remind him of how willingly she’d just surrendered the alleged first prize—on Valentine’s Day, no less, not that any of them cared about that—but for some reason she withheld the kindness. She knew it wasn’t fair. In a more logical world, her disappointment with Nick would have made her more appreciative of Max rather than less, but it hadn’t worked out that way. All the contrast had done was highlight the shortcomings of both guys, the fact that the sexy one wasn’t nice, and the nice one wasn’t sexy.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked.
    “Nothing. Why?”
    “You’re just standing there. Why don’t you come to bed?”
    “I don’t know.” Jill tried to smile, but it didn’t really work. “I’m just feeling a little shy tonight.”
    “Shy?” He couldn’t help laughing. “It’s a little late for shy.”
    She moved her arm in a vague arc, trying to encompass the game, the room, and their lives in the gesture.
    “You ever get tired of this?”
    “Sometimes,” he said. “Not tonight.”
    She didn’t move. After a few seconds, he stretched himself out on the bed, ankles crossed, fingers interlaced beneath his head. His briefs were unfamiliar, brown