You both got dressed. Your whole body was buzzing, awake. You heard every rustle of cloth like a whisper telling you a secret. How weird to be after sex and not want to fall asleep. You wanted to go play football in the park or some shit. You noticed your dick—still rock hard—when you pushed it back into your underpants. Snapped your jeans shut over it. Kind of uncomfortable.

Sophie opened the door and slapped your ass. “Go get them,” she said, and giggled, deep in her throat.

You almost danced down the hall.

You had a bunch of flowers for Jill. Not roses, that might be too corny. Or, like, trying too hard. Just a bunch of yellow and orange flowers. You didn’t know what kind they were. You would think that would have been covered on the Program weekend sessions, what flowers to get a girl. Instead of all the crap about listening skills.

She was a little late to the restaurant. She’d picked it; it wasn’t a fancy place, but it wasn’t a dive either. It was all raw wood panels and big wooden tables, and the waiters had white smocks on, and practically all they served was like coffee, bread, and salad. But really good bread, deep brown and full of seeds and shit, the kind that steams when you break it open. You sat there at the end of one table with your glass of water, waiting for Jill to show, and you could smell the bread, a powerful thick wave of bread, coming from the ovens.

She was in a tank top and khaki shorts and army boots. Belly button showing, no bra, her mango breasts jiggling, the fabric snug around them. Petite. Her stomach wasn’t flat and severe like Sophie’s; she had a little low roundish hill of a tummy that suggested the hill of her cunt inside those baggy pants. She looked a little wary, like she was wondering if this was a good idea, but her face relaxed into confidence when she saw you, and she grinned. Her face—yeah, like Cindy Crawford, without the mole. Holy shit, what were you doing here? It was hard to believe that she smiled when she saw you. Hard to believe she was heading over to sit next to you.

She slid in next to you and waved the waiter over.

“Hi,” you said, “hey, uh, thanks for—”

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “Don’t thank me. What are you thanking me for? Don’t thank me for being late to a date with you, that’s lame.”

You were going to say sorry, but you thought better of it.

She reached over and wrapped her hand around your biceps, and squeezed. “You’re looking good,” she said. “You lost weight in there.”

“Yeah, it’s weird, it’s not like I had any time to exercise or—”