The Leftovers

time—because suddenly she was right there, pressing up against him, the warmth of her body passing through two layers of fabric so that it felt to him like skin against skin. Without thinking, he placed a hand on her waist, just above the gentle flare of her hipbone. At almost the same moment, she tilted her head back, letting it rest against his chest. It felt completely natural to be standing like that, and also terrifying, as if they were perched on the edge of a cliff. He was intensely aware of the elastic waistband of her pants, an intriguing tautness beneath his palm.
    On the door, he told her after a hesitation that was a lot longer than it needed to be.
    Oh yeah, she said, abruptly breaking the connection as she turned. Why didn’t I know that?
    She grabbed the yogurt and headed for the table, flashing him a sidelong smile as she sat. He finished emptying the dishwasher, his mind buzzing, the memory of her body like a physical sensation, imprinted on his flesh as if he were made of very soft clay. A whole day had gone by and it was still there, right where she’d left it.
    “Fuck,” he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head, not quite sure if he was regretting the incident, or trying to remember it a little more clearly.
    *   *   *
    LAURIE COULDN’T blame the pizza guy for looking surprised, not when she was standing in the doorway in her white clothes, holding up a hand-lettered sign that read: HOW MUCH?
    “Uh, twenty-two,” he mumbled, doing his best to sound casual as he withdrew two boxes from an insulated pouch. He was just a kid, about the same age as her own son, broad-shouldered and appealingly scruffy in cargo shorts and flip-flops, as if he’d stopped off at Parker Road on his way to the beach.
    They performed the awkward exchange, Laurie taking possession of the pizzas, the kid relieving her of two tens and a five, a huge expenditure of petty cash. She stepped back from the doorway, shaking her head to let him know that no change was necessary.
    “Thanks.” He pocketed the bills, tilting his head in an attempt to catch a glimpse of whatever was going on inside the house, losing interest when he realized there was nothing behind her but an empty hallway. “Have a nice night.”
    She carried the warm, flimsy boxes into the dining room and set them on the table, registering the anxious but clearly excited looks on the faces of the new guys, Al and Josh. After months of meager rations at the Ginkgo Street compound, takeout pizza from Tonnetti’s must have seemed like an impossible, almost indecent luxury, as if they’d died and gone to a heaven of self-indulgence.
    They’d moved in just three days ago and had quickly established themselves as ideal housemates—clean, quiet, and helpful. Al was around Laurie’s age, a short, impish guy with a gray-flecked beard, a former environmental consultant for an architecture firm. Josh was in his early thirties, a good-looking former software salesman, lanky and morose, with a tendency to stare at everyday objects—forks and sponges and pencils—as if encountering them for the first time.
    Not too long ago, Laurie thought, she and Meg would have been intrigued by the arrival of two reasonably attractive, age-appropriate men in their lives. They would have stayed up late, whispering in the dark about the newcomers, commenting on Al’s cute smile, wondering if Josh was one of those emotionally stunted guys who would turn out not to be worth the work you’d have to put in to get him to come out of his shell. But it was too late for that sort of entertainment. They’d cut their ties; Al and Josh belonged to a world they’d already left behind.
    Guessing correctly, Laurie opened the box that contained the mushroom and black olive pizza—there was also a sausage and onion for the carnivores—that Meg had specifically requested. The aroma that engulfed her was rich and complex, as full of memories as an old song on the car radio. Laurie was unprepared for the tenacity of the melted cheese as she lifted out the first slice, the improbable weight in her hand when it broke free. Moving slowly, trying to invest the act with the sense of ceremony it deserved, she set the slice on a plate and offered the plate to Meg.
    I love you, she said, speaking only with her eyes. You’re so brave.
    I love you, too, Meg silently replied. You’re my sister.
    They ate in silence. Al and Josh tried not to look too greedy, but they couldn’t restrain