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“I’m not trying to be skeezy. Just making conversation. Getting to know you. Jerry and Elaine talked about sex all the time.”
“I don’t know if they talked about it all the time.” I hold a pregnant pause. Not that there’s any chance I could be pregnant (because, well, you know why). Sure, everyone thinks the moment a single woman moves to Manhattan, her life becomes an episode of Sex and the City season one. But my show would be called Busy in the City. And yeah, I wear that busyness like a badge of honor just like everyone else in my generation. At the same time, I don’t want Nick thinking I’m in the slow-sex group. Or worse—a twenty-eight-year-old virgin (No offense, Tina Fey—love you!). Nick nudges me with a look, so I say, “Yes, of course I have sex.”
“Really?” He sounds unconvinced. “Then when was the last time?”
I take a second, skipping days and weeks, and begin calculating months.
“That long, huh?” Nick says.
“Give me a second.”
“If you need a second, you’re not doing it enough.”
“Whatever.” I push my seatbelt over and reach in the back for my pillow, the one tucked in my garbage bag. I need at least another REM before I can handle this conversation. “I’m not here to debate my sex life with you.”
“What sex life?”
“Ha. Ha.” I settle my pillow against the sun-streaked window and curl in. Nick takes the hint and doesn’t say another word. I sneak a sideways glance his way. What’s he thinking? And why do I care so much? I close my eyes, willing myself to conk out for a nap. But his words resound in my head—If you need a second, you’re not doing it enough.
Yes, my schedule’s packed but maybe that’s not the reason for my lack of sexual adventure. I have no desire to fake it for some guy I hardly care about. Maybe that’s the problem. I just haven’t found the man I don’t have to fake it with.
