This Is Where I Leave You

to instead.
    And even as we kiss, my hand now under the hem of her short skirt, rubbing her smooth thighs, her fingers in my hair as her tongue dances across my lower lip, I am aware of the on-screen plot resolving itself. The fiancé has shown up unannounced, there’s some kind of sheepdog festival, a chase through a crowded farmers’ market on motor scooters. The fiancé rides his scooter off an embankment and into the duck pond. Happily-ever-after is just a dramatic gesture and a heartfelt speech away. We stop making out and tune in for the last ten minutes. The girl is at the airport, alone, having broken it off with the fiancé, but too late to save her relationship with the widower. But here he comes, zipping through the airport on a stolen luggage cart. He delivers a loud speech about what he’s learned about grief and love and second chances, proclaiming his love even as the cops handcuff him. Somehow, his trusty dog is there too, along with half the village, who have all had a hand in bringing him here to stop her from leaving. She kisses him while he’s still handcuffed, and so he falls over and they kiss some more on the floor. Next to me, Penny sniffles at the happy ending. Then she leans over, takes my earlobe between her teeth, and says, “Take me home.”
    10:45 p.m.

    Penny lives in a ground-floor apartment in a complex downtown, just a few blocks from Dad’s store. There are framed movie posters on the walls - Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Julia Roberts - and not very much in the way of furniture: a mucous-green leather couch that she must have gotten a deal on because no one would choose that color in a vacuum. There’s no matching love seat, which I find somewhat symbolic. A fat cat with yellow demon eyes is curled up on the couch, and the potpourri scattered in little bowls around the room almost manages to cover the smell of the unseen litter-box. I’m nervous, the kind of nervous that leads to flop sweat and flaccidity. Too late I remember the Viagra I stole from Wade, now sitting worthlessly in my glove compartment. I have not had sex with a woman other than Jen in over ten years, if you don’t count my bizarre sixty seconds with Alice earlier today, and you’d better believe I’m not counting it. I’m treating it like a dream or a UFO sighting, something maybe you’ll talk about one day when you’re drunk and among friends, but nothing that has any bearing on your actual life. But when your wife spent the last year of your marriage going elsewhere for her sexual gratification, it’s only natural to have some performance anxiety. Penny steps into the apartment, tossing keys and flipping off lights. I stand uncertainly in the doorway, my thighs trembling a little. I can feel all the crap I ate at the theater burrowing through my intestines, making me feel bloated and queasy. “Should I come in?” I say. My voice sounds hollow and scared.
    She gives me a sharp, knowing smile. “If I were you, I would.”
    The bedroom is a mess, clothes everywhere, towels draped over an armchair to dry. Penny undresses in the light of the desk lamp, not sultry, not like a stripper, but the same way she would if I wasn’t here, letting her clothing fall where she stands. She presents herself to me, her body lithe and smooth, breasts full and buoyant on her too-thin frame. I am self-conscious about my own soft body, with its budding love handles and lack of abdominal definition, but she doesn’t seem to mind, kissing my thighs as she pulls down my pants and then falling down 218onto the bed with me, licking her way up my belly to my chin and then into my mouth. “You taste good,” she murmurs. I worry that I have bad breath, that my ass will feel flabby in her hands when she grabs it, that I’m rubbing her breasts like a high school kid, that my dick won’t get hard enough, that it won’t measure up to other dicks she’s seen, that I’ll come too soon, that she won’t come at all. I should go down on her, just to make sure she gets something out of the deal, but I’m intimidated by the thought of an uncharted vagina, terrified that after a few minutes of fruitless exploration she’ll gently pull me back up by my ears and tell me it’s okay when we both know it’s not, that it felt good anyway when we both know it didn’t.
    The sex is as good and bad as first times tend to be, like a play rehearsal full of missed marks, botched lines, bad lighting, and no calls for an encore. We