100 Proof

At the emergency room, they called the pain “stress cardiomyopathy.” Through the morphine haze, the syllables split nonsensically, so she requested clarification.

“You have no sign of coronary artery disease, but you just lost your husband,” said the doctor. “We call this Broken Heart Syndrome.”

The place in her chest, hot as the center void of a volcanic crater, made sense to her then. She settled back into the arms of the pain.

“We can give you something to make you more comfortable,” the doctor said. “But all that heals this is time.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, because he wanted her to go, but didn’t want her to leave him. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

All the color had drained from her face, and she breathed as if she were afraid to disturb the air between them. He did not know how to interpret this. After all these years, he had failed to learn the language of her actions.

If the man in front of me does not stop moving around and knocking his seat into my knee, I am going to stab him with my pen nib, so help me God.

And that was how it all began: the wrestling down by the air marshals, and the horrible call to her parents and the loss of her scholarship. But, if you caught her on the right day, she would tell you the truth. She felt she had taught him a little bit of a lesson, and that made it all OK.

He rode past on his bike, all wild-eyed and sour-smelling. I listened as we continued in opposite directions, my ears pricked to be sure he didn’t return.

I suppose it’s possible that he had somewhere to be, a place with cleaner clothes and warmer hearts. But I still walked faster, picking up my pace in the direction my life carried me.

Later, I let him fall from my thoughts like lint from a pocket. I did not want to feel him there, riding next to my leg.

She discovered, at the last moment, that she had picked up the Shiraz-Grenache, a pinky-rosy blend more like candy than the slow, smooth ride of the Shiraz she thought she’d selected. How could she have gone so wrong? Her evening crushed before it began, she decided not even to bother putting on lipstick.

Later, he pointed out to her that her lack of lipstick meant he didn’t end up wearing any either, and, as he reminded her, he was more of a beer guy anyway.

Some of my best friends are pajamas. They are always there for me, no matter at which angle my hair sticks out. They will be there all night, and, if I’m so inclined, into the next day. They never talk back, nor ask for much, and it doesn’t hurt their feelings if you favor another pair for a week or two.

Oh, pajamas. Thank you for your loyalty through the darkest of times.

He found her rocking in the gravel at the side of the highway as the cars rubbernecked.

A man yelled, “I called 911!” from a rolled-down window. A child pressed a palm white as the center line against the glass of the minivan he rode in. On the other side of the highway, wind shuddered the trees.

“You must be in shock,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “I have all my wits about me.”