Frances nearly bolted right then. The word pleasuring always made her laugh, she wasn’t really sure why. “Uh. I guess so. Nothing too . . .” She stepped forward and looked through the glass lid. “. . . extreme.” There were things in the cabinet she could only hazard a guess at. Basic penis-shaped things she recognized, but there were also things with multiple ends and extra flaps and ribbed surfaces and bobbled surfaces and movable parts that would surely increase the risk of embarrassing hospital visits? (Well, I was walking along and I fell on it . . . Yes, in a seated position, Doctor.)
“How about this one? It’s very popular.” Araceli held up a seven-inch silver bullet–looking vibrator, shiny and smooth.
“It looks a little high tech for me.” She also knew someone small would be using it as a lightsaber within two seconds of finding it, God forbid. Shit, where was she going to keep all this stuff?
Araceli reached for another. “This one is maybe more familiar.” It was basically a realistic looking penis. Araceli turned it on, and it hummed in a friendly way. Frances nodded, feeling she could get her head around that one. So to speak.
She looked over at a rack of lingerie, and Araceli followed her gaze. Without the other woman noticing she quickly scanned her figure, gauging what she had to work with, and stepped out from behind the counter. “Are you interested in something sexy to wear? We have many lovely things.”
Frances could see nothing but string on hangers, but she gamely went with Araceli to take a look. Black and red featured prominently, although animal skin was also a common motif. She thought about the nature documentaries she’d seen, and got sidetracked by images of baby pandas. Maybe she’d forgotten how to be sexy. She had been sexy, as a younger woman, sexy and free and uninhibited. She’d had many lovers before Michael, and felt pretty good and liberated about the whole thing. But she’d also felt anxious and slightly crazy and out of control, and the safety and warmth of her relationship with Michael had felt like a safe harbor, not a dry dock. And then came the kids. Adorable little passion killers, each and every one.
Araceli was holding up a black . . . item . . . that seemed to be constructed of three lacy doilies held together with boot laces. She thought about looking at herself in the mirror, the doilies gamely holding on for dear life, the boot laces disappearing into her little folds and curves, and shook her head. “My husband prefers me naked,” she said, without thinking, and then started giggling uncontrollably. It made her sound like some acolyte, and Michael stood tall in her mind, ordering her washed and brought to his tent. She lost it completely. Araceli waited patiently, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, thinking about what to make for dinner.
Once Frances calmed down she paid for the vibrator, some warm massage lotion, and a pair of fur-lined handcuffs, which she’d thrown in completely on impulse. If Araceli had been surprised by the choice she certainly hadn’t shown it.
• • •
That afternoon Frances called her mother, amazed at herself for thinking of it, and further amazed that she thought of it at a time when she had access to a phone and time to place a call. The kitchen was empty, the dogs were outside, the washer and dryer were both humming, there were flowers on the counter, sex toys in the bedside table . . . She was on top of her game and nothing bad was going to happen to her. Her mother answered the phone, thousands of miles away in New York.
Frances said, “Hey, it’s me.” She pulled her cup of tea closer, listening for the children. Normally the best way to get them all to appear was to try and place an important phone call. They would then instantly materialize, often in tears, and always with demands of some sort. It was a kind of magic. Shitbird magic, but effective.
“Hi there, sweetheart. How are you doing? What’s new in your neck of the woods?” Her mother sounded just the same as always, the cadences of her voice familiar on a cellular level. Frances loved her mother dearly and also felt very sorry for her, which hadn’t been that great a combination when she was a teenager, but worked now. More or less.
“Nothing much.”
“I heard your neighbor has been sleeping around. Is that such a normal occurrence it’s not worth mentioning?” Her mother laughed, and Frances heard the click of a kettle being turned on. She could see the kettle in her mind, see the kitchen counters with their countless red jars and mugs, a little color being what her mother loved. Anything red. Made her very easy to shop for.
“How on earth do you know that?” Frances took a sip of tea, debated whether she wanted a cookie enough to get up for it.
“Ava told me.”
Frances was surprised. “When did you speak to Ava?”
Her mother laughed again. Clearly, she was in a good mood. Or maybe she was as high as a kite, who knew? “Yesterday. We talk on Skype, you know. You should look into this Internet thing. I think it’s going to catch on.”
“Funny. That’s nice. I hadn’t realized you two were in touch so much.” Her tea was sweet enough without a cookie.
“It’s not that much, maybe once or twice a week. She likes to talk, I like to listen, it’s good.” Her mom sighed suddenly. “I wish I had listened to you more, when you were her age. I have no memories of that time at all. I’m sorry.”
Frances raised her eyebrows. “That’s OK, Mom. It was a hard time, right? Because of Alex. I don’t know
