Sex and Death Read Online Free Page A

like his father and take some selfies. Get the man online, if posthumously. If no one much liked him whenhe was alive, at least the fucker could get some likes in the after-life. Serious.
    The woman remembered herself.
    â€˜I’m Trish, Jim’s . . . you know.’
    â€˜Uh huh,’ George said.
    â€˜I won’t even pretend to think he might have told you about me,’ Trish said. ‘It’s not like we were married in any real official way. At least not yet.’
    Oh god. A half wife.
    The last time he spoke to his father – months ago now – George remembered not listening while his father said he had met someone, and that she – what was it? – provided the kind of service you didn’t really get paid for, or paid enough, because fuck this country! And that this new girlfriend was from somewhere unique, and George knew to act impressed. Certainly his dad had seemed very proud, as if he’d met someone important from another planet.
    So details had been shared, just not absorbed. Would she tell George now that his father had really loved him? Pined and whatever, wished for phone calls, had the boy’s name on Google Alert?
    â€˜Of course, Trish,’ George said, and then he smacked his forehead, ever so lightly, to let her know just what he thought of his forgetfulness. She deserved as much. They embraced, at a distance, as if his father’s body was stretched out between them. Then she stepped closer and really wrapped him up. He felt her breath go out of her as she collapsed against him.
    George knew he was supposed to feel something. Emotional, sexual. Rage and sorrow and a little bit of predatory hunger. Even a deeper shade of indifference? History virtually demanded that the errant son, upon packing up his estranged and dead father’s belongings, would seek closure with the new, younger wife. Half wife. Some sort of circuitry demanded to be completed. He had an obligation.
    It felt pretty good to hold her. She softened, but didn’t go boneless. He dropped his face into her neck. Lately he’d consorted with some hug-proof men and women. They hardened when he closed in. Their bones came out. Not this one. She knew what she was doing.
    â€˜Well you sure don’t smell like your father,’ she said, breaking the hug. ‘And you don’t look like him. I mean at all .’
    She laughed.
    â€˜Oh I must,’ said George. He honestly didn’t know.
    â€˜Nope. Trust me. I have seen that man up close . You are a very handsome young man.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said George.
    â€˜I think I want to see some ID! I might have to cry foul!’
    They met later for dinner at a taco garage on the beach. Their food arrived inside what looked like an industrial metal disc.
    George dug in and wished it didn’t taste so ridiculously good.
    â€˜Oh my god,’ he gushed.
    It was sort of the problem with California, the unembarrassed way it delivered pleasure. It backed you into a corner.
    After dinner they walked on the beach and tried to talk about George’s father without shitting directly inside the man’s urn, which was probably still ember hot. George hadn’t unboxed it yet.
    â€˜I loved him, I did. I’m sure of it,’ Trish said. ‘When all the anger finally went out of him there was something so sweet there.’
    George pictured his father deflated like a pool toy, crumpled in a corner.
    â€˜He called me by your mom’s name a lot. By mistake. Rina. Irene. Boy did he do that a lot.’
    â€˜Oh, that must have been hard,’ said George. Who was Irene? he wondered. Had he ever met her? His mother’s name was Lydia.
    â€˜No, I get it. He had a life before me. We weren’t babies. It’s just that I suppose I want to be happy, too. Which is really aradical idea, if you think about it,’ Trish said.
    George thought about it, but he was tired and losing focus. He preferred a