This is the way things are, she said. This is the way they have to be.
She had been told, once, that if she said things aloud enough times, they might have a better chance of coming true.
But I am not that person, and if that’s the case, you are not who you want to be. He had grown tired of telling her this. The door to the outside tugged at his attention.
She repeated herself, but this time, too softly for him to hear.
It’s time, he said, but he thought twice about squeezing her hand goodbye.
Did you expect someone? he asked. Or did you expect me in particular?
She thought about the way, sometimes, he tasted like moonlight when he kissed her. She considered his laugh, and how thinking about him, even when she happened to be in a drab conference room, made the edges of everything sparkle.
How could I have expected any of this? she said. If I’d known it was coming, I’d never have been able to be so delighted.
He took her hand, then. Next, he kissed her. He feared saying aloud how much she made his world sparkle, too.
The day started with a long walk under a steel-gray sky. She had not expected it to be so cold that morning, so she’d only worn the lightest sweater, which meant even after speeding her pace, her cheeks and fingers still tingled, and her nose was still numb at its tip. It was only later, when she had returned indoors and worked through a cup of milk-lightened tea, that she could put the chill behind her, relax the tightness held between belly and sternum, and embrace whatever the next hours had to bring.
I will never cherish goodbyes. I will never relish the closing of an old theatre, the end of a book I loved, the last look into an old apartment before shutting the door behind me. But this has been a year of goodbyes gone unmarked, of formal ceremonies I could not attend.
It seems I am even more a girl of ritual than I already knew. Somewhere, in that crowd of eyes and hearts uplifted, in that shared journey of farewell, I am better able to reach quiet resolution, a release unfettered by obstacles I did not choose.
They had lost each other in the storm, one minute walking next to each other, the next unable to find each other even by voice. She opened her mouth to call his name, and the dust coated her teeth and tongue. In the past, she had listened to the advice: stand still, wait for it to blow through. But instead she took one step, then another, unsure of her direction or what she sought. She only knew, at this moment, she was finally ready for an adventure she could call her own.
The eye doctor’s office walls are retina-thin, and that is how, as my pupils widened under the influence of drops, I heard her explain to the man in the next room that he had advanced glaucoma.
I’m not going to lie to you,, she said. This is pretty bad.
The man muttered resigned assent to the treatment ahead, to the application of more powerful eyedrops, to appointments every week or two.
This is not going to be a walk in the park, the doctor said.
After I return, there are nights when I dream I’m back. In some dreams, the city is full, in others empty, but it seems not to matter—I awaken, breathless, my head thrashing from side to side, and I have to put a hand on the wall to steady myself, remember where I am. The plaster under my palm is different enough from the metal wall of a truck that it grounds me again, back in the world, and the sounds outside my window regain their mundane context.
100 Proof 