There’d been some months of lead-up to this moment, and their bodies came together and their arms went around each other with such excitement and relief that a sobbing noise or a grunt got stuck in her throat. He measured her in terms of his fiancée—he thought she was a few multiples in width. Nora fell into the category of women who are not fat, whose hair is bigger, who know how to dress themselves with wide belts, nail polish, jewelry. The kiss was quick, she tasted like cosmetic powder, he felt relieved and wanted to finish the walk-through and get out of there. He felt a pressure from her mouth, broad and forceful, her tongue pressing forward, and he tried to meet her tongue but it pushed his out of the way and came deeper into his mouth. In the very delicate balance between what is sexy or risky, her tongue was difficult to make room for.

He stood back, tried to smile, to breathe, to change the rhythm of the tongue thing she just did. She had a curious look on her face, one of vacancy and desire.

She moved closer, opening her mouth wide; tiny white strings of opaque spit had formed, like webs, in the corners of her mouth. She licked her lower lip, which had become dry and pitted. Some of her lipstick had come off. She grabbed the back of his head and jacked it toward her. Her own head moved forward steadily—like a shark’s head, like a prosthetic limb, some football wrapped in bologna. She threw her tongue down his throat like a waterlogged sneaker.

He maintained his footing, jaw open, impaled.

She leaned back and said things like, “OOHHH fuck!” and “Finally.”

Kissing her was so terrible he stopped and thought of what to do next.

This was his only client, and if he offended her or did something ugly—she owned the building.

You idiot, idiot, idiot.

This was supposed to be some dreamy diversion, but it was turning out not so good.

He didn’t know what else to do, so he tried her bonbons. She took off her cardigan, then her shirt.

Her bra was sheer, simple lace netting, with no decoration on it. She had fine stretch marks at the top of her chest. She had goose bumps on her hairless arms. There were other smells now, among the ammoniac and dusty smell of glue guns, tar sealant, Sheetrock dust. There was some smell coming off her, her smell—he thought of chickpeas and deodorant. Most of the gutted first floor was dark behind her, and she backed up. Looking directly at him, she undid her skirt, which opened like a kilt, and dropped it. She came forward in the loafers and knee socks and underwear. She seemed huge now, making goo-goo eyes. She was the biggest girl who’d ever made goo-goo eyes at him. She reached out and pulled on his nuts, which hurt.