Lying in bed next to Malcolm, who says he’s dog-tired tonight, I fantasize about Joe. Maybe not even Joe himself, but a good guy, a Jimmy Stewart, a man who might run his hands over me tentatively at first, who would kiss me softly before trying anything beyond first base, and then, once things started smoking, would take me to the moon and back. I think about how much I’d like that, and how, at forty-something, those are nothing more than fantasies, experiences I’ll never have again.
