The Leftovers

judgment.
    “You bitch,” Melissa told her. She sounded angry and a little drunk. “I warned you about this.”
    The older Watcher brought her cigarette to her lips, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening as she inhaled. She blew the smoke right in Melissa’s face, a thin, contemptuous jet.
    “I told you to leave me alone,” Melissa continued. “Didn’t I tell you that?”
    “Melissa.” Kevin put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t do this.”
    She jerked away from his touch. “This bitch is stalking me. It’s the third time this week. I’m sick of it.”
    “It’s okay,” Kevin told her. “Let’s just walk away.”
    “It’s not okay.” Melissa stepped closer to the Watchers, shooing them like pigeons. “Go on! Get the fuck outta here! Leave us alone!”
    The Watchers didn’t retreat, nor did they flinch at the foul language. They just stood there, calm and expressionless, sucking on their cigarettes. It was supposed to remind you that God was watching, keeping track of your smallest actions—at least that was what Kevin had heard—but the effect was mostly just annoying, something a little kid would do to get on your nerves.
    “Please,” Kevin said, not quite sure if he was addressing Melissa or the Watchers.
    Melissa gave up first. She shook her head in disgust, turned away from the Watchers, and took a tentative step in Kevin’s direction. But she stopped, made a hawking sound in her throat, then whirled and spit in the face of her tormentor. Not a fake spit, either—the kind that’s more noise than saliva—but a juicy schoolboy gob that struck the woman directly on the cheek, landing with an audible splat.
    “Melissa!” Kevin cried out. “Jesus Christ!”
    The Watcher didn’t flinch, didn’t even wipe at the foamy spittle as it dripped off her chin.
    “Bitch,” Melissa said again, but the conviction had gone out of her voice. “You made me do that.”
    *   *   *
    THEY WALKED the rest of the way in silence, no longer holding hands, doing their best to ignore their white-clad chaperones, who were following so close behind it felt like they were a single group, four friends out for the evening.
    The Watchers stopped at the edge of Melissa’s lawn—they rarely trespassed on private property—but Kevin could feel their eyes on his back as he made his way up the front steps. Melissa stopped by the door, reaching into her purse, groping for the keys.
    “We can still do this,” she told him, without a whole lot of enthusiasm. “If you want to.”
    “I don’t know.” There was a melancholy weight in his chest, as if they’d skipped right past the sex to the disappointment afterward. “You mind if I take a rain check?”
    She nodded, as if she’d suspected as much, squinting past him to the women on the sidewalk.
    “I hate them,” she said. “I hope they all get cancer.”
    Kevin didn’t bother to remind her that his wife was one of them, but then she remembered it herself.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “I just don’t understand why they have to ruin it for the rest of us.”
    “They think they’re doing us a favor.”
    Melissa laughed softly, as if at a private joke, then kissed Kevin chastely on the cheek.
    “Give me a call,” she told him. “Don’t be a stranger.”
    The Watchers were waiting on the sidewalk, their faces blank and patient, freshly lit cigarettes in their hands. He thought about making a break for it—they usually wouldn’t chase you—but it was late and he was tired, so they set off together. He sensed a certain lightness in their steps as they moved beside him, the satisfaction that comes from a job well done.
     

BLUE RIBBON
    NORA DURST HATED TO ADMIT it, but SpongeBob wasn’t working anymore. It was probably inevitable—she’d seen some episodes so many times she basically had them memorized—but that didn’t make it any easier. The show was a ritual she’d come to depend on, and these days rituals were pretty much all she had.
    For about a year—the last year they had together—Nora and her family had watched SpongeBob in the evening, right before bed. Erin was too young to get most of the jokes, but her brother, Jeremy—he was three years older, a kindergarten man of the world—stared at the TV with an awestruck expression, as if a miracle were unfolding before his eyes. He chuckled at almost every line, but when he really cut loose, the laughter exploded from his mouth in loud whoops that mixed approval