Carpool Confidential by Jessica Benson

post—Mickey Mouse comforter) up in a molten blaze, having settled into a definitely married kind of routine in both frequency and variation. We were both busy, tired at night, and Rick often got home late. Plus having two kids around at all times, a dog to walk, a social life, and a phone that seemed to ring endlessly wasn’t exactly conducive to seductive lolling around in a pearl thong when and wherever the mood struck, but I hadn’t planned on giving it up completely just yet.
    Charlotte laughed. “In that case I hope the last time was fabulous.”
    Maria came in, looked at me huddled in my chair by the window, and shook her head.
    I glared at Maria, implying I was waiting for her to leave. “I’m trying to remember.”
    Maria folded her arms to let me know she wasn’t going anywhere. I covered the receiver and suggested that she take the money and the grocery list on the kitchen counter and actually go to the grocery store. I knew she’d substitute whole milk for low fat and Velveeta for cheddar in retaliation for her morning TV schedule being interrupted, but I didn’t care. I uncovered the receiver. “Sorry.”
    â€œNo problem,” Charlotte said as Maria stomped out. “Does the lack of memory imply passage of time or lack of fabulousness?”
    â€œHey.” I was, maybe, a little defensive—after all, I’d been married to him by choice for a lot of years. “That’s not really fair. Rick was…good.” Which was true.
    â€œMmm. Maybe. But best for himself, I bet.”
    â€œCharlotte,” I started to object but changed my mind. “Well for sure, he never had any complaints.”
    She laughed. “Uh-huh. I’m familiar with the type. Did he check his BlackBerry in the middle?”
    â€œNot too often.”
    â€œOnce”—she had a definite BTDT tone—“is too often.”
    â€œNever at a crucial moment.” I had to stick up for him a little.
    â€œCrucial for who?” she wanted to know. “You or him?”
    I laughed.
    â€œGet yourself a Rabbit,” she advised. “The battery kind, not the pet kind.”
    â€œNow I’m even more depressed.”
    â€œAre you kidding me?” she sounded amazed. “Think of all the boring banker dinner parties you don’t have to endure any more just to get a little action later.”
    â€œCharlotte, that’s often called sharing a life,” I pointed out. “I miss it.”
    â€œThat,” she said, “is because you don’t know any better. I’ve named mine Grey.”
    â€œWhat,” I said, “are we talking about?”
    â€œMy Rabbit. I’ve always liked the name Grey. I think it sounds interesting. It’s currently my only sexual relationship, so why not?”
    â€œAre you saying you don’t date anymore?” Charlotte was the kind of woman who never lacked for men offering to whisk her off to Rome for romantic weekends, polish her toenails, carry her grocery bags, debug her computer, buy her diamonds. So this was hard to imagine.
    â€œOh, no,” she said. “I date. I just don’t have sex with anyone except Grey.”
    â€œCharlotte,” I said. “Do me a favor and don’t call me anymore until I’m back on my feet, OK? I don’t think I can take many more conversations like this.”
    â€œSee,” she said, “that’s where we’re different. This conversation’s depressed you, but I’m thinking this should all be in the blog. It’s real, it’s intimate, it’s exactly where every other dumped woman your age”—hmm, maybe I could convince her to adopt a new catch phrase on this—“ends up. It’s practically universal.”
    Pretty much as soon as we’d hung up in order for me to ponder the universality of unlooked-for celibacy in over-35s, my mother called and said, “So, tell me what