She’s due here in twenty minutes, and I’m still sweating like a swine from biking down to the Jefferson Memorial, twenty-three miles roundtrip. I peel off my jersey and contemplate the unopened package of razor blades sitting next to the bathroom sink. Who will notice if I don’t shave? Georgia Dumfries. Nikki and I have never discussed it, but we habitually pose for her friend’s cameralike gaze. Nikki will kiss me hello tenderly on the lips, or I’ll pick up one of my daughters and swing her over my head until she belly laughs. Small embellishments like that. And after Georgia leaves, we’ll stretch out on our king-size bed and agree that she deserves to find a good man, because beneath her reserve she’s warm and kind. We’ll run through the tired, diminishing list of our single friends and come up with nobody for her. And then we’ll sigh, and Nikki’s breathing will quicken, and we’ll ravage each other like we did during our early courtship, when we spent full Sundays in the bedroom of the apartment she shared with Georgia, who likely heard our every groan and giggle through the paper-thin walls.
