Over the sushi bar, a flat-panel television played ice skating. It seemed the perfect sport for the meal, the dazzling combos, the emphasized artistry, the way the skates glided over the slippery ice as fish slid down my throat.
The sushi chef, between orders, moved to the end of the bar so he could get a better look. He wiped rice from his hands with a damp towel as the woman on the screen spun on one foot, her opposite leg lifted effortlessly behind her head.
“Tell your Mom I said hi,” she said.
“Hi, back,” my Mom said.
“Hi, front,” she replied.
“That’s good,” Mom said. “Tell her I said, that’s good.”
Her arms widened like a mouth, her eyes as round as a trout’s. He wanted to go there, but feared what she might ask later.
Instead, he went somewhere to find himself a slice of pie, a slice that would never talk back, that would stick around for a known quantity of time, provide only the most expected amount of sweetness and softness before disappearing.
“I want to run along with you,” he said. He was just lacing up his shoes, and her hand was on the doorknob.
She looked down at him, felt the ready-buzz in her muscles. “Why don’t you just wait here until I get back,” she said, and she exited, her legs carrying her into the pink of the morning.
She loved him so much her legs hurt. This caused her to wriggle through every meeting, twisting her lower body in constant search for relief.
He invited her dancing—it was obvious she wasn’t a dinner-and-movie girl. On the floor, he wrapped around her like music, and it was only after he dropped her off at her apartment that his back spasmed.
Somewhere over Virginia, someone closed the windowshade to my right. I woke up for good as the plane began its descent, and opened the shade, expecting to see buildings but only catching glints of light off the slate blue of Lake Michigan.
“I’m jealous you were able to sleep the whole way,” said the man who had sat to my left. “I closed the shade for you, but I didn’t think anything was going to disturb you.”
“Thank you,” I said to this man I had slept next to, this man who took care of me just a little.
In the cobwebby kitchen, she stirred the soup. The small pot held one potato, one carrot, a handful of peas, a pitcher of broth. The radio played Bach with a crackle.
Later, leftovers put away and dishes washed, she replaced the ring on her left hand and turned out the kitchen light, plunging the whole house into darkness.
100 Proof 