The Abstinence Teacher by Tom Perrotta

studied her face, as if she were a good friend he hadn’t seen in a long time. Up close, he looked older than she’d expected, at least forty. Some gray hair. Crow’s-feet. A certain wariness around the eyes.
    “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.
    Ruth chuckled nervously, glad she’d taken the time to shower and put on makeup before leaving the house.
    “Good things, I hope.”
    Tim Mason didn’t answer, nor did he loosen his grip. He just kept staring at Ruth, the moment stretching out, the air smelling like apples.
    “It means a lot to her that you’re here,” he said. “I know how much she’s missed you.”
    When he released her hand, Ruth felt relieved and vaguely let down at the same time.
    “Well, thanks for coaching,” she said. “I know it’s a big time commitment.”
    “I love it,” he said, turning to Maggie and ruffling her hair. “We got a great buncha kids.”
    *   *   *
    RUTH WASN’T sure why the brief encounter with Tim Mason had left her so flustered. It was nothing, really, just some innocuous small talk and a handshake that lasted a little too long with a guy she wasn’t even sure she found all that attractive (he was handsome enough, but she always found something vaguely off-putting about long hair on a middle-aged man). And yet here she was, all hot and bothered at the beginning of the second half, staring right through the players on the field to the coach on the far sideline—he was holding a clipboard, banging it against his leg like a tambourine—unable to think of anything but the pressure of his palm against hers and the way time seemed to stop when he looked into her eyes.
    It was embarrassing, she understood that, pining for your daughter’s married soccer coach—oh, she’d checked for the ring; she always checked for the ring—possibly a new low. Not that it was her fault. This was the kind of thing that happened when you went without sex for too long. After a while, any scrap of male attention—a wry smile, a kind word, the faintest whiff of flirtation—was enough to create a full-blown disturbance in your love-starved brain. A guy says, “Excuse me” in the supermarket, well, he must be the One, your Last Chance for Happiness. Or barring that—because happiness was a pretty tall order—your last chance for a normally unhappy life where somebody at least touches you every week or two.
    What made it more ridiculous was that it wasn’t even midmorning yet, and Tim Mason was already her second Last Chance of the day. During the night, she’d gotten so worked up thinking about Paul Caruso and their long-lost interlude of secret passion—Hadn’t they shared something special? Wasn’t it a pity that they’d fallen out of touch?—that she’d done something she already regretted. Dragging herself out of bed at three-thirty in the morning, she’d logged on to Classmates.com and posted a query on the Oakhurst Regional Highmessage board: “Does anyone know how to get in touch with Paul Caruso, class of ’80? He was a trumpet player who lived on Peony Road.”
    What was that, six hours ago? And already, she’d dumped her old lover for a hippie soccer coach who would undoubtedly be replaced by the surly Russian guy with liquor on his breath who pumped her gas at the Hess station. Is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of my life, Ruth wondered, one unrequited fantasy after another until I shrivel up and die?
    SHE WAS rescued from this unrewarding line of inquiry by the sudden appearance at her side of Arlene Zabel, a striking woman of about fifty, whose daughter, Louisa, played goalie for the Stars. Arlene had long gray hair that only heightened your awareness of how youthful she looked otherwise—her body trim and girlish, her face lively and unlined.
    “Ruth,” she said. “It’s been ages.”
    Ruth agreed that it had. Arlene gave her an approving once-over as they exchanged pleasantries.
    “You look terrific. Did you lose