When Amanda woke with a start, she thought at first the dream was real. Of course she did; everyone does. She took deep breaths: “It was only a dream,” she told herself. But so vivid, it scared her. She thought about waking David, for the company and to just talk it out. But, “That’s silly. He’s just going to pretend to listen. He’s just going to want to go back to sleep.” She glanced at her phone: it was 4:20. She suppressed a laugh and it came out like a snort. David stirred but didn’t wake. Amanda rolled her eyes and swung her feet to the floor.

Amanda stood in the kitchen and looked at the refrigerator: breakfast. She looked at the cabinet: nightcap. “Sorry, fella,” she muttered to the fridge on her way past. She took a glass from the rack and the brandy from the cabinet. She retreated to the living room with her glass, and her memories. She sipped slowly, eyes closed, the liquor blazing a trail down her throat and out across the years. She smiled.

First up was Barry: a swaggering baseball prodigy in high school, Amanda still fucked him under the bleachers at reunions. Every five years and it still felt like lights out, even thirty-five years later. He had a way of shifting his stance that never failed to thrill her; the angle was just right, she supposed, though she’d never really wanted to analyze it. Over-analysis would drain the fun, turn it into science instead of alchemy. She craved alchemy; science was snoring away in the bedroom.

Amanda sipped and closed her eyes again. Nick: the standout in a succession of freshmen and sophomores who, quite frankly, should have been paying more attention in 9th grade Biology. Clueless, most of them. All except Nick: the very memory of him set her body thrumming. She could feel herself becoming aroused, her breath shorter now. She shook her head and moved on to Thomas.

Which, she realized, might have been a mistake. Thomas put his hand on hers, and then tucked that hand right into her panties, the boy-shorts she wore to bed. Eyes still closed, she could feel Thomas stroking her gently and wondered how he had known to do that? She hadn’t really liked him much, he was shallow and — truth be told — rather dull. But he — he — had been paying attention Biology, or whatever class it was when the lecture had been about not just slowing down but paying attention. She wondered, in that brief moment before her own fingers sank so deep that she forgot all else, where he was now and whether he might pinch-hit for Barry, should it ever come up.

This night-tour, for Amanda, became a source of frustration rather than stimulation. She realized, in a fleeting instant of clarity, that although her own fingers knew the terrain, they could never surprise her the way Thomas, and Nick, and even Barry had. There was never anything new: it was reliable, but nothing more.

New. Amanda finished her drink, and her mental tour, and went back to the bedroom. She paused for a moment and then stripped off her nightdress and panties: if things went well, they’d surely end up on the floor; she might as well skip one step. She drew back the covers and stood gazing at David’s sleeping form. She closed her eyes, an interval of further reminiscence, and then crawled over and took him in her mouth. In two seconds he was stiff and hard; in three more, he was wide awake — puzzled, but grateful. He sat up and pulled her to him, kissing her hard, the way he had in the old days before work and children and anxiety about tenure and retirement.

If only, Amanda thought. If only. The persistence of Barry, married to the navigational excellence of Thomas and Nick. David turned her over, which did surprise her, and thrust into her from behind, which made her gasp. Perhaps, she thought. She closed her eyes again and sank into more than just the moment. For a fleeting instant she had them all.