Behind three-starred glass, we swirl pinot while my shade approaches the crowded intersection. Mousy hair, thin-soled Keds. A backpack, frayed, beats an awkward tempo as she scans facades and faces. Awaits the signal forward.
On green, she crosses to me. Presses palms to mine, reflected.
I want to rush into the twilight. To console her. Scream a warning. To say, you are stronger than you know. You are steel and sunlight, you are….
Instead, I say I’m sorry.
Don’t be, she says. I’m not.
You okay, my husband asks.
My palm is wet, the street empty.
Yes, I answer. Now.
*****
My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann 