We’d never been separated. We’d always slept in the same bed. It must have been like the first time he left home, and he got homesick, and it was ...ike he could see home, but he couldn’t go home. And I think Mom wasn’t sure we were telling the truth about not having had sex, because she watched us all like a hawk. She invented reasons to be around us. Where before, she and Uncle Bob might have gone into the bedroom for some morning or afternoon delight, now she followed us around, asking what we. It was like worn leather or dried meat, something neither alive nor dead: in arrested decay. All the muscles of my thighs and pelvis tensed for a moment. I’d always noticed that if you liked a man’s smell, the rest might not matter much. He could be a pipsqueak or a gun control advocate and still he could do just fine in bed if you liked his smell. And the rider wasn’t a pipsqueak by a long, long shot. “Evenin’,” he said. “Uh…hello,” I replied. “You’ve been sitting here a long time, girl.” My. More

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