100 Proof

She was far too old for growing pains, but one day, when she put on her regular shoes, the small bones of her feet rubbed together like baby birds ready to leave the nest. She bought a new pair of slingbacks, but soon her heel hung over the back of the shoe.

9, 9.5, 10, 10.5.

It makes no sense, said the doctor. There’s nothing about this in the literature.

At night, she woke up with her feet clenched, the toes of one wrapped around the arch of the other as if they were trying to hold themselves fast.

He asked her to run with him that afternoon, and she agreed, though she regretted it 16 steps in, already unable to control her gasping.

Why don’t you go ahead, she said, but he ignored her, or didn’t hear her, and they continued along the road.

Seriously, she said at a quarter-mile. I can’t do this. She slowed to a walk, and he turned, jogging backward with small steps.

I don’t understand the problem, he said. It’s just running.

But it’s too fast, she said. I can’t handle this pace.

They decided the rest that night.

She was both at the surface and higher up than she’d ever been, clouds so close she could almost scrape her fingernails through the wisps trailing below them. She felt as if she were beginning something new, yet old, something borrowed from a former life.

Is it time to turn around yet? she asked, though she was the only one there to hear it. She remembered someone telling her, once, that people talk to themselves more often at altitude. Have I gone far enough to learn my lesson?

She heard the child screaming down the street, a terrible tantrum echoing off city buildings and rising above the traffic noise. The cries rose and fell, rose and fell, and the NO NO NO NO ricocheted into her open window.

A coworker appeared in her office doorway. What is that horrible noise? he asked.

Wrath, she said. A little bit of fear. Early heartbreak.

That kid has serious lungs, he said.

She remembered a tiny hand laced with an IV, her infant’s gasp for just one more breath.

Yes, she said. Serious lungs.

The only open seat at the coffee shop was across from a grey-haired man in a brown suit. He nodded when she gestured at the chair.

What’s your name? she asked.

Old Man, he said. It happens.

She wondered whether he meant old in general or too old for her. It was so hard to read a person’s age anymore.

I’m pretty wrapped up in my work, he said, though the table in front of him was empty. He placed one hand over the other as if to close the conversation.

They met over a quesadilla served on a plastic plate. The taqueria booth table looked like it hadn’t been wiped down in months, but the tomatoes in the salsa fresca were bright and fresh, and the onion sweet.

The carnitas would be too much without the salsa, she said. The fat needs acid so it doesn’t overwhelm.

What about the cheese? he asked.

We all need something to bind us together.

He touched the tortilla-soft inside of her wrist. He chewed slowly, hoping to stretch his half of the quesadilla long enough to tell her he loved her.