It was Lucy who agreed to swap with this couple from Iowa they met on the airplane. He wondered how it came up, but didn't ask. They seemed nice enough to him.

Maybe it's what we need, Matt, Lucy told him. She faltered over the "we." She had recently dyed her hair red, as if that would be enough.

Whatever, he told her. If you think it will help.

They all started in the same bed, but Lucy got up with Ned and went onto the couch in the suite's living room. Dottie, Ned's wife, told him she was ready as soon as he was. A pale lumpy pillow. That was Dottie.

His hands. Wasn't sure what to do with them, what was off-limits. So he held them behind his back, heard the couch in the living room thump against the wall. It sounded like Love Me Do, the way wiper blades swish to the radio.

Dottie said she wanted to switch; he rolled over.

Our son, Edward, she said. He's one point away from a genius. You got any kids?

He shook his head. I guess I should tell you, he said. I don't have orgasms. So whenever you're ready.

She whistled. Like a machine, she said. Not ever?

No. I get close, though.

And that doesn't drive you nutty?

The orgasms, this fate he had accepted. But not Lucy. It filled her with guilt. He was ahead of her in the giving department by hundreds of them. There was no catching up.

It still feels good, he told Dottie.

Dottie moaned, and he wanted to put his hand over her mouth, wanted to say that they were right next door; they might hear you. Wanted it to matter.

Dottie's face red, now. He imagined a swirling ball of matter, like the Big Bang, twisted in his stomach, suspended there, unable to explode. A machine, Dottie had said. Mechanized, yes. Stopped becoming something intimate, so much so that Lucy was with Ned, and he only felt relief. Finally. Someone else's turn.

Yeah, Dottie said. That's good. Keep doing that.

Of course, he could. Forever, as long as it took. He thought of Lucy's contorted face, her sinking into the couch, Ned with her. My God, she might say. I forgot. That's how it's supposed to work.

And then a shriek from the living room. Again. Lucy. He pulled away.

Dottie pulled him in. I'm so close. Please.

He felt pulled elsewhere, grabbed a robe, ran in, found Lucy on the couch, face red, Ned on the chair, eating M&M's from the servi-bar.

It broke, Matt. He looked at the shred of latex on the coffee table. You know what that means?

He stared at it, the white globs, the force and violence of this explosion.

Well, do you?

§ § §

Randall has fiction appearing in upcoming issues of several journals, and he begins Vermont College's MFA in Fiction Writing program in Summer 2004. He lives outside of Philadelphia with his wife Meg, a cabaret singer, and their two children, Jonah and Chloe. He's currently working on a short story collection.

This piece was first published in INK POT #4 - 2004, a literary journal.

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