Sibyl liked his fingers. They were thick and solid, like cigars. She thought she could deal with seeing those fingers every day. They’d look good typing at a keyboard, or playing an instrument. They’d be handsome doing up the zipper on his fly, or undoing it. She always liked to do that part for the men she slept with- it made her feel like a temptress, someone younger and skinnier.
He looked bored. Sibyl realized she hadn’t spoken in a while.
“I admire the shape of your fingers,” she said.
The woman with the short black hair dinged the bell. “Time for a break!” she chirped. The man- Zulfikar, judging by the nametag- stood up quickly and Sibyl watched those fingers, colour of burnished wood, rearrange the knot of his tie. “Nice to meet you,” Zulfikar said perfunctorily. He turned around, scanning the room. He was tall and broad-shouldered and blocked Sibyl’s view. She stayed seated.
“Nice to meet you as well,” Sibyl called after him. She was picturing the way those broad shoulders would look lying down and handcuffed to her teak bedframe. “Extremely nice to meet you.”
Zulfikar didn’t turn around and smile at her the way she hoped he would. Instead, he walked away and started chatting with a very tall, slim brunette in a backless halter. The brunette’s bare shoulders were bony and they shone. Sibyl bit her thumb, the piece of flesh next to the nail, tearing it off in a strip.
She was sitting at a table at the far end of the hall, almost hidden behind two potted rubber tree plants. She wasn’t the only one; tables had been arranged in a U around the periphery of the room, and one woman had been assigned to each. There was a long table at the entrance, across from Sibyl, and that was where the black-haired woman sat and rang her bell. They had a two minute break now, and then Sibyl would get a chance with a different man. Everything was very tightly scheduled, slotted into neat three-minute intervals.
On the table in front of her was a wine glass full of water and her purse, which was made of soft brown leather and had a broken strap. It had been a gift from her ex-husband on their fourth wedding anniversary. Sibyl had picked it out herself, because it was sensible. He had wanted to buy her a clutch, barely big enough for a lipstick- had said it was stylish. She had laughed then at his senselessness but now the memory made her frown.
The other women, all but Sibyl, were standing, chatting with the men. Now the freckly redhead who sat at the table nearest to Sibyl was flirting with Zulfikar, touching his sleeve lightly and smiling with pink lips. She had squinty eyes and the skin on her bare arms looked loose, but Zulfikar was grinning back at her. He said something and Sibyl watched as they both laughed.
The bell rang. “Switch!” the woman yelled.
Sibyl licked her lips and brushed her bangs out of her eyes. Her hair was blonde and thin, cut shoulder-length. She had big eyes, big lips, and wore glasses with thin frames.
A heavyset man approached her table, smiling, the corners of his pink lips only barely visible under his moustache. “Hello there, Sibyl,” he said, his eyes focused on her nametag, lingering longer than necessary at breast-level. “My name’s John.” His hand was warm and fleshy.
“It’s very nice to meet you, John,” she said. “Have a seat, won’t you?”
He did. He cleared his throat. “So, how’s your night been going so far?”
“Well, it’s a little odd, if you insist on knowing the truth. This is my first time.”
”I come every month,” said John. “It’s like buying lots of lottery tickets. You never know what number might get called, right?”
Sibyl nodded even though she wasn’t sure what John meant. He smelled nice, like aftershave and chewing gum.

That night, as she undressed in front of John, Sibyl figured that it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t let it happen; the whole ordeal had occurred in and of itself. Whenever her mind would begin to cycle through the faces of her son, of her ex-husband, John would say something about the colour of her hair or her skin, how pale they both were, and she would be distracted. She let him take his pants off himself, and he did it awkwardly, as though it was a new experience. His stomach was hairy and huge, but hard, almost muscular in its stoutness.
“Tell me about yourself,” John had asked her when he first sat down.. “You look like you’ve seen a lot. I would love to hear your stories.”
When she took him home he was rougher, hard, and his mouth against hers hurt a little in its forcefulness. The bristle hairs of his moustache made her skin itchy. They rode in the back of a taxi together, like in the movies, the cab sliding through the wet slick Saturday night darkness, wheels hissing. Sibyl felt drunk and giddy and she let her body hang in John’s arms, all fat and fluid. He held her like a lump of dough in the backseat.
Her house was a stocky stacked box, all huge windows and door knockers, a pretty house on a leafy street full of other people’s pretty houses. The cab driver couldn’t find it at first and so they had to circle the block. By the time they arrived the fare was twelve dollars, yet the driver demanded twenty because it was dark and wouldn’t stop raining.
“You can’t be serious!” said Sibyl. She thought he was being ridiculous. He was a small dark man with eyes placed very close together. She laughed, but the man didn’t seem to get the joke. Eventually John paid the fare, pulling a crumpled twenty out of his back pocket.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sibyl said as she unlocked the front door. The entranceway was dark and cold. “The man was being completely illogical.”
John shrugged but didn’t say anything. He was looking around, taking in the piles of sneakers by the front door, the skateboard and schoolbooks and sweatshirts piled haphazardly. “You’ve got a kid,” he said.
“Eddie. He just turned twelve. He’s not here, though. I don’t think he’ll be here for a while. Does it bother you?”
John nudged the skateboard with his foot. The floor was made of wood, and so it rolled. Both Sibyl and John stood, watching and listening to the sound of the wheels.
“Not unless it bothers you,” he said.
The window in Sibyl’s bedroom was open, and the room was drafty. It was a white room, with a white down blanket and white throw pillows. The walls were the colour of earwax.
“Very virginal,” John said when he saw it. “This feels like our wedding night.” He laughed in a way that made Sibyl uneasy. His cheeks were ruddy and pink, like an alcoholic’s. He could be anyone, thought Sibyl. I don’t know him at all.
“Come closer,” Sibyl said. She took off her glasses before she kissed him. He wasn’t as rough this time, but his moustache tickled. Sibyl couldn’t help but think of her ex-husband, who was a tall, thin man. His shoulderblades had been so prominent that Sibyl referred to them as wings. John, though, was a solid presence with no link to the ethereal. He was running both hands along Sibyl’s face as he kissed her, the pads of his fingers callused, stroking.
Their sexual intercourse was mechanical and precise. Afterwards, John fell asleep with the condom on and Sibyl could feel it all through the night. It lay cold and clammy on her back and thighs as he slept. By the time she woke up John was gone. Next to her the bed was empty, with a concave dent in the mattress that seemed ghoulish. The pillow smelled like sweat and scalp oil. Sibyl was tired- sleeping next to someone else had felt alien, and she hadn’t been able to relax. In the middle of the night John had flung his arm out sideways, and it had hit her square in the chest, squishing her left breast lopsided. She hadn’t had the heart to shove him away, and so she left it there, the pain dull and constant. It wasn’t so bad once you got used to it.
It was eleven o’clock. The light coming through the window made Sibyl’s bedroom seem even paler. It could have been a scene from a still-life painting. The whole room could have been made of wax. She pictured sticking her finger through the wall and having it indent, sharp and clear.
Sibyl called her son on his cell phone. He was at the family cabin on Maine Island with his father. He answered mid-laugh, and Sibyl could hear shouting in the background and the crash of pots and pans.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she said. “It sounds like you’re having fun.”
“Hey, mom! Yeah, we’re gonna go fishing today. Did you want something?”
“I just wanted to say hello, see how you two are doing. You’re being a good boy, aren’t you, Eddie?”
“You know it, mom. Look, I have to go.”
“Oh…. Well, all right then. Have a nice day, Ed. Remember, be good!”
More crashing, banging, laughter. The sound of a familiar male voice in the background.
“Love ya mom!” And then the click.
The house was empty, autumn air cold outside, the leaves crisp. As she dressed Sibyl found bruises on her stomach and arms and thighs, soft spots of bluish green. She wore high-waisted jeans and a loose collared shirt and a straw hat with a wide brim, as if it were summer. Being pregnant with Eddie had slackened her stomach and breasts, creating puckers and folds where ridges of muscle had once been. The other women on the block all belonged to fitness clubs, took yoga and Pilates and pole-dancing classes. Sibyl was uncoordinated, so she walked. She lost track of time and distance when she walked and usually forgot herself as well. Today, though, all she could hear was last night’s bell, slotting time into perfect three-minute segments. She thought of John, vaguely. He had been large and rough, but it was Sunday, and she didn’t know when Eddie would be coming home.
Sibyl pictured herself calling John and inviting him over for supper. She would set the table, for once, and make her pesto linguini. She would put Eddie’s skateboard in the closet and wear perfume. John would smile and his moustache would crinkle a little at the corners. They’d make love and she would undo his fly this time. Sibyl pictured the scene and realized that she was smiling. She would turn around and head home; call John, first thing, and ask him to be at her place by six. She was sure he still remembered the address.
Sibyl walked home quickly. Her telephone was by the front door, and she picked up the receiver without hesitation. She knew he would agree to her invitation, and felt a sudden giddiness, an urgency in her veins. The dial tone rang heavy in her ear. She waited, her index finger poised over the numbers. Sibyl stood like this, frozen, for a long time. She realized, then, that John had never given her his phone number.