Because, okay, yes, she’d loved men. And they’d loved her. Back in the day. For her? It was a form of joyous overflow. Like that art guy on TV who loved to paint so much that sometimes his wife got peeved, and he’d go, holding up his brush: “Joyous overflow, Joanie, mea culpa!” She’d been like that. But with sleeping with guys. Ha! She’d enjoyed every last one of them. Even the sleazes. Especially the sleazes! That salesman from Indiana! With his little blindfolds? What had that been about! Did he carry them everywhere? Apparently! But God bless him, that was just him, that was his thing. Everyone had a thing, or several things, and her view was, if you loved the universe (which she did, or liked to think she did, or anyway sure tried to) you had to love all of it. Even Mr. Indiana (Ted? Todd?) with his little blindfold case. Where was he now? He’d been, like, fifteen years older than her. So he’d be . . . ​what? In a home? Dead? Having his own interesting conversation with Saint Whoever? Re the blindfolds? Re the not exactly stopping when she’d asked—­

But even that—you learned something from everything. Or, at least, she did. What she’d learned from Mr. Indiana was—­

Well, she wasn’t sure.

Don’t date guys from Indiana.

Ha.

What a hoot.

Swep.

Ted/Todd from Indiana had been followed by who? Whom? Carl, then Tobin, then the Lawrence/Gary combo. After that it got blurry. Lord, what a roster! She’d really lived. Had not discriminated between tall/short, nerdy/cool, married/not married, whatever. No blockages. No hang-ups. If you’re interested in me, I thank you for that, I bow to that part of you that bows to me, let’s get it on. Ha. No, really, she recanted exactly none of it. Why recant openness to the moment? Bring it! Even now, bring it! Open, open, open! She ought to run across Pine and give Alma a hug. That would freak the old bitch out.

But no. If she’d learned anything in her life it was: You had to accept people the way they were.