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307 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 2005
One night, when Roz and Paul were making love, she heard herself command Paul, Fuck me, and she realized that she'd forgotten that this was exactly what he was already doing; she'd been lost inside the act, and it was like listening to music and thinking, I'd like to listen to some music now, because you were so stimulated that you needed an influx of new stimulation, an overlay of something else. Bring on the next thing, you thought, come on, come on, make it snappy.
the wonderful rub of parts that even to this day reminded Dashiell of Boy Scouts, trying to make a fire with two sticks. You could feel boyish and scoutlike in bed.
is so amazingly aesthetic. That was the thing about two good-looking women having sex. At first you could almost die from the delicacy, from the long wrists, yoga-bred bodies, and subtle flashes of thin gold chain or ear-stud or pearl-gloss pedicure. Sex between two women now seemed to her like an exclusive club, and in order to join you would need to look like this, and admire yourself and the other person, and feel a great relief that no one else was allowed in.
the kind of interest that men sometimes had in wines or stereo equipment or cars. How did they taste, sound, run? Which was the best one, and what was the best way to try it out?
The book was placed on a high shelf in the den, as though it were the only copy in the world and if the children didn't find it they would be forever unaware of the sexual lives of their parents, forever ignorant of the press of hot skin, the overlapping voices, the stir and scrape of the brass headboard as it lightly battered the plaster, creating twin finial-shaped depressions over the years in the wall of the bedroom in which the parents slept, or didn't sleep, depending on the night.
Roz closed her eyes for a moment, and then she let them fly open, wanting to be surprised all over again at the way Jack had sifted through their things and ordered them while she was gone. She also wanted to look more closely at all the things they had gathered over time, or that had incidentally gathered around them. It seemed that Roz Mellow was looking at time itself now, which had somehow expanded so greatly that it had managed to fill every closet and room and hallway of this house.
They thought briefly of their children, as all parents do, picturing a scene of laughter and drinking and jokes with cultural references that neither Roz nor Paul would understand, for references had changed, and jokes had changed, and after a certain age it was just impossible to keep up, and then after a while you didn’t want to try, but left the new references to the newer people and simply kept thinking about the old references, the names from past decades that still rang inside you.