Her boyfriend sold sex toys. He was probably nice enough, though I tried not to think about him too much–all things considered.

She got out of bed and cascaded over to her closet. “Check it out,” she said, as she began chucking vibrators at me: red ones, blue ones, pink ones, grey ones. “I have tons.”

“Do you use them,” I asked, genuinely interested.

“Yes,” she said evenly. “He won’t have sex with me. He just gives me these.” She threw another on the bed. “He always has.”

“How many do you have?”

“I’ve lost count. He’ll come home, give me one, and demand I use it then and there.”

He was obviously crazy. But I kind of admired his twisted bravado.

“Have you ever had sex?” I needed to know.

“With him—no.”

She flittered back to bed and we had sex amidst her rainbow of vibrators—countless reminders of her weird relationship with her weird boyfriend. One after the other her vibrators turned on, as if controlled by some unseen being: Humming, buzzing, mocking.

“He’s here,” she whispered later on. “You need to go.”

I slipped out the back door, one of her vibrators firmly in my grasp.