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enter an infinite loop of explanation. It turns out that he wants to see her that night, so she invites him over and everything falls into place.
    Jeremy arrives thirty minutes later and leans against the wall with a slouch so extreme that he appears to have left his skeleton at home. He carries a paper bag containing some vile-smelling fast food, which she immediately recognizes as French fries because the grease stains have made the bag transparent. But at least he’s had the courtesy to bring something over, an offering to her for what he is about to receive. Mirabelle hastily constructs a fifth option, which is to get him to simply snuggle with her, so she won’t have to put out. This option is hastily discarded because it is the afterglow she wants, and she begins her process of seduction wordlessly, naturally set into motion by the blush of her skin, and the willingness of her legs, and her readiness, which she knows a man can sense. If only Jeremy were a man.
    Instead, she practically has to spell it out for him. Mirabelle longs to have a Wuthering Heights movie on tape that she can throw on, point to, and say, “Get it?” Jeremy’s instinct for lovemaking turns out to be all right, once the idea has been writ large by Mirabelle with oils and candles and incense and music and some two-bit scotch that neither has drunk before in their lives. But because Jeremy fails to fully arouse Mirabelle, her ardor never peaks and she therefore fails to fully arouse Jeremy, resulting in a see-saw condom battle that is waged this way: she works Jeremy up into a nice little erection, but by the time they get the condom on, with its dulling insulation, there is a loss of stature. Mirabelle is not exactly relaxed and wet either, which causes Jeremy’s penis to bend and fold as he tries to enter her. Then they have to start all over. She removes the condom, works him up by kissing him on the mouth and stimulating him with her hand. Occasionally, the cat jumps on the bed and bats at Jeremy’s testicles as if they were hanging balls of catnip, causing a disastrous delay in the action. Then they struggle with the condom and the cycle begins all over again. This goes back and forth several times, with Mirabelle rubbing him vigorously, then flopping herself speedily back on the bed and spreading her legs instantly, until the inevitable happens again. There are three entities in the room that night, Mirabelle, Jeremy, and an animated penis that expands and contracts like an anesthesiologist’s oxygen balloon. Finally, his youth prevails, and Jeremy successfully dwells for a few moments in paradise. The life expectancy of a radial tire: this is the thought that races through Jeremy’s mind as he tries to delay his impatient ejaculation.
    Eventually, the deed is done and all the thrashing comes to an end. The two of them, not touching, lie there in the shadowy darkness, and everything is silent. The distance between them is awful. But then Jeremy snakes his arm around her shoulder, sliding it just under her neck, and reaches his hand up into her hair and gently pulls her near him. He brings his body in close. Mirabelle feels her perspiration mix with his, and she likes that. Her senses refocus on the room and she smells the vanilla of the candle. She sees herself in the bedroom mirror and notices that her breasts have filled from his touch, clumsy as it was, and she likes the way she looks. Jeremy glistens in the low light. Mirabelle stares into her own eyes. And she feels all right.
    Then a terrible thing happens. Jeremy uncoils himself from Mirabelle, stands in his underwear at the foot of the bed, and begins to talk. More than talk. Orate. And worse, he talks in a way that requires Mirabelle to respond with periodic uh-huhs. What he talks about is a range of topics loosely categorized under the heading Jeremy. He talks about Jeremy’s hopes and dreams, his likes and dislikes, and, unfortunately, a lot