With one eye, Sean is a homeless man. Looking at him through the other, he chooses "to live off the land." She turns him around and takes his jacket; she wraps her arms around his body. Muscle memory; her body talking to Eddie's body, remembering Eddie's body better than the mind ever could. His eyebrows arch and he is mystified, intrigued; when she tells him they're going to her house he doesn't really question it.

Cathy, distracted by the very fact of sex, offers an automatic A for reading the Teen Pregnancy pamphlet and then writing an essay about it. Kristin, a swot in the middle rows, asks what that has to do with US History. "...I don't know, Kristin. Take the stick out, I'd said you'd get an A." The painter appears, asks if she'd like the crack in her ceiling redone.

Whether it bothers her, always there at the edge of vision, somehow fungal, biological somehow, teasing her with the concept of decrepitude: Would she like to paint it over? She would. He adds it to his list: "Nice skirt, by the way... Suits you." He looks at her, he sees her legs. When she turns she doesn't see it, but he paints the air when she turns away: She is art, designed to be beautiful; she doesn't know that he does this. She likes him, looking at her legs. She likes him looking.

Sex was never theoretical. She types "sex" into Google, like the man said. She searches the world for sex, the idea of sex. "You like my sweet shaved pussy, don't you," asks the woman on the screen. At the desks they're children, writing or reading, thinking of American History and thinking about sex. Outside there is a painter. And at the head of the class there is a teacher, bored, reexamining her everything, watching cunnilingus being performed on a sweet, it's said, shaved pussy.

Andrea approaches the desk, grinning that way, that irrepressible way, just to tell Cathy one thing. "You'd better have tons of cash ready for this week's weigh-in, because I am swimming in these jeans. I've been jogging in the park after school every day." Cathy's glad to see she's finally motivated, and Andrea grins through the glass at him. Motivated, of course, by the painter in his jeans, the painter who dances. Cathy doesn't notice, she's not looking at Andrea looking at the painter, she doesn't see what Andrea's seeing, or why. "...And you should take off your glasses next time you're gonna watch that shit."