Fleishman Is in Trouble

by Taffy Brodesser-Akner

After dinner he walked her through a park to her car and he got every signal in the world that it would be okay to kiss her: She was standing close, she was waiting, she wasn’t busying herself with keys or anything. And so he kissed her and for the first time since 1998, not even this century, not even this millennium, he put his lips on another woman and she kissed him back. Kissing another mouth, wow. He and Rachel had stopped kissing long ago. Even in the best of their times, Rachel was all business when it came to sex; she didn’t have time for extras. She barely had time for foreplay. This was different, and not just because it wasn’t sex. It was the strange feeling of taking ice skates off after wearing them for hours and walking on plain ground—you know how to do it but it’s different. Just wow. He and Laurette made out for five gooey minutes, Toby devouring her face, unaware of its corners and limits. Afterward, Toby skipped back to the train. Holy moly, he thought. You could opt out for fifteen years, and you could be beaten down to within an inch of personhood, but this was waiting on the other end, like a reward for all you had withstood.