The three of them acted more like old married fifty-somethings than three trendy, young, ménage-sharing twenty-somethings. They should be eager to jump into bed together or fuck up against the wall, filled with raw passion for each other. Instead, Oscar was so tired after work he fell asleep on the sofa in front of the television, while Donovan sat at the table surrounded by a mountain of paperwork he’d brought home from the office. At night, in their apartment, instead of screams of passion, there were soft snores from Oscar, and groans of frustration from Donovan as he hunted for missing pieces of data. “We’re all still young. We should be in bed having sex,” she said aloud in the living room. Neither man paid any attention to her. She had the feeling that even if she stripped off, Oscar wouldn’t wake up, and Donovan wouldn’t notice unless she started dancing on the table between him and his spreadsheets.
