“Sounds fantastic,” I said, thinking only that he called me a girl— just a girl.

“Oh, it is fantastic. You’ll see when I do the demo. Do you mind if I get things ready for when your mom comes home?”

“Go for it,” I told him, and then watched as he opened a duffel bag from which he extracted three glass mason jars. He placed the jars carefully on the coffee table and pointed to each. “Dirt, sand, glitter,” he said. “Last one usually seals the deal. Especially in households with children. Do you have any younger siblings?”

I shook my head, feigning interest as he made three separate piles—dirt, sand, and glitter—and rubbed each into the carpet with a gentle circular motion. I thought of Ruby in bed with Brandon, his body poised over her, his hands on the soft flesh of her tummy.

Earl sat down and began to assemble the vacuum, fitting tubes onto a long, rubber hose that extended from the machine’s round body. I scooted closer to him, so that I could smell his laundry detergent. Beneath this, he smelled of sweat, of hours spent lugging equipment from door to door. He didn’t seem to notice that we were touching, that my thigh was pressed against his. My heart raced as he attached a thin plastic wand to the end of the hose and screwed it tight.

“All set,” he said.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Again, I pressed my thigh into his, hard enough that he would have to notice. For a moment I thought he might play dumb, but then suddenly, as if I’d activated a switch, he sprang into action—his lips on my lips, his hands everywhere at once, probing and grabbing. Then his mouth was on my neck—my neck! It tickled, and I couldn’t help but giggle. How funny, I thought, to go from point A to B so quickly, and without words. Like alchemy: a stranger into a lover, a friend into an enemy.

“It was you on the phone. Wasn’t it?” he asked, his voice like gravel in my ear. His grip around my waist tightened and he began to move his hand down, inward, toward the hem of my jean shorts. “Wasn’t it?” he repeated, more forcefully.

“It was,” I said, trying to sound sexy, but it came out small and high-pitched.

“I could tell you wanted it all along. I could tell you were bad. Real bad.”

“You could?”

“Honey, you’ve got sex written in bold across your forehead. The worst ones always do.”

I reveled in the idea of this sex marquee. If my forehead said sex, what did Ruby’s say? Mayonnaise? One-room schoolhouse?

Up close, I could see a faint yellow stain around his shirt collar. I wondered if his mother taught him to do wash, like Nana Faye had taught me, or if he had a girlfriend at home to do it for him. Suddenly there were a million details I didn’t see before, important details that Ruby probably knew about Brandon: Where was he born? Where were his grandparents born? Did he have any siblings? Any pets? Had he ever been camping? Skiing? Horseback riding? Why was he selling vacuums? Did he ever dream of leaving Wichita? Leaving Kansas?