The Leftovers

before she admitted it, but the cheesy commercial always got her choked up, the joy of the reunited family, all that sentimental crap.
    Not that it was her job, but she took a few minutes to tidy up while she waited for Aimee. She knew how depressing it could be to wake up in a messy house, how it could make you feel like the new day was already old. Of course, Dmitri’s house was party central—his parents and two little sisters had been “away” for as long as Jill had known him, and no one expected them back anytime soon—so maybe he didn’t mind so much. Maybe chaos was the normal state for him, order the puzzling exception.
    She carried a bunch of empty beer bottles into the kitchen and rinsed them under the faucet. Then she wrapped up the cold pizza, put it in the fridge, and crammed the box into the trash can. She’d just finished loading the dishwasher when Aimee came in, smiling sheepishly, holding one arm straight out in front of her. A pair of panties was dangling from her hand, pinched between her thumb and forefinger like a piece of suspicious roadside trash.
    “I am such a slut,” she said.
    Jill stared at the panties. They were light blue, with a pattern of yellow daisies.
    “Are those mine?”
    Aimee opened the cabinet under the sink and shoved the underwear deep into the trash can.
    “Believe me,” she said. “You don’t want them back.”
    *   *   *
    AS MUCH as he enjoyed it, Kevin had never been much of a dancer. It was the football, he thought—he was too tense in the hips and shoulders, a little too rooted to the ground, as if he expected dancers from an opposing team to come crashing into him. As a result, he tended to get locked into simple repetitive motions that made him feel like he was impersonating a cheap battery-operated toy.
    Nora made him even more conscious of his shortcomings in this department than usual. She moved with a relaxed grace, apparently unaware of any distinction between her body and the music. Luckily, she didn’t seem the least bit put off by Kevin’s incompetence. Most of the time, she didn’t even seem to know he was there. She kept her head down, her face partially concealed by a swaying curtain of dark, sleek hair, so fine it looked almost liquid. On those rare occasions when their eyes met, she gave him a sweet, startled smile, as if she’d forgotten all about him.
    The DJ played “Love Shack” and “Brick House” and “Sex Machine,” and Nora knew most of the words. She shimmied and spun and kicked off her shoes, dancing barefoot on the hardwood floor. The exuberance she displayed was especially impressive because she must have known how closely she was being watched. Kevin could feel it himself, as if he’d accidentally wandered into the beam of a harsh spotlight. The scrutiny wasn’t exactly rude, he thought—there was something furtive and helpless about it—but it was relentless, and he grew increasingly self-conscious in its glare. He glanced around, smiling sheepishly, apologizing to the room for his clumsiness.
    They danced for seven songs straight, but when Kevin asked if Nora wanted a break—he certainly could have used one himself—she shook her head. Her face was gleaming with sweat, her eyes bright.
    “Let’s keep going.”
    He was exhausted after the one-two punch of “I Will Survive” and “Turn the Beat Around.” Luckily, the song after that was “Surfer Girl,” the first slow number since they’d started. There was a moment of awkwardness during the opening arpeggio, but she answered his questioning glance by stepping forward and draping her arms around his neck. He completed the embrace, placing one hand on her shoulder and the other on the small of her back. She dropped her head on his shoulder, as if he were her prom date.
    He took a little shuffle step forward and one to the side, breathing in the mingled scents of her sweat and shampoo. She followed his lead, her body pressing into his as they moved. He could feel the humid heat of her skin rising through the thin fabric of her dress. Nora murmured something, but her words got lost in his collar.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t hear you.”
    She lifted her head. Her voice was soft and dreamy.
    “There’s a pothole on my street,” she told him. “When are you gonna fix it?”
     

Part Three
    HAPPY HOLIDAYS
     

DIRTBAGS
    TOM WAS JITTERY IN THE terminal. He would have preferred to keep hitchhiking, sticking to the back roads, camping in the