I get up, pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, go down into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. Frank comes into the room with his Frisbee in his mouth. “Wrong,” I tell him, looking to see if I have all the ingredients to make orgasms. A little bit short on nuts—the irony does not escape me—but enough to make do. I turn on the oven, take out the mixing bowl. And turn the radio on.

• • •

As I’m finishing my third orgasm, I see Chip and Diann coming down the stairs. He’s fully dressed; she’s in a beautiful blue silk robe.

I turn my attention back to the American Journal of Nursing. An article on renal failure.

“What smells so good?” Chip asks.

I point to the kitchen. “Treats, have some.” There’s no way I’m going to call these what they are.

He goes into the kitchen, and Diann sits at the table with me. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“For what?”

“For … well, I think I might have been a little … loud.”

“I was down here,” I say, ambiguously. And then I look up to see Chip, who has come out with a plate full of orgasms. He sets them on the table, takes one. Diann looks longingly, but takes nothing.

“Diann,” he says, pointing to the plate, his mouth full.

She shakes her head. “I’m not really hungry.” She pokes at the edge of one of the smaller squares, takes her hand away, then picks it up. “What the hell.” She breaks it in half, eats one half; then, quickly, the other. “I remember the first time I made brownies,” she says. “I was so proud. I took them out of the oven, left them on the stove top, and went to my bedroom to do homework while they cooled. When I came back, they were all gone—my brothers and sisters had eaten every one. That was one of the many times I wished I were an only child.”

“Be glad you weren’t,” I say.

“Oh, but wasn’t it … didn’t you get so much attention?” Diann asks.

“No,” I say. People who had brothers and sisters hate it when you tell them this. They want you to prove them right, support their fantasy that you spent much of your time seated between two adoring parents who took turns stroking your hair and praising you. They don’t want to hear about silent dinners, awkward vacations, the long hours when your parents went out and you sat in the living room waiting for them to come home.