“So … is Alex your husband’s name or something?”

“No. No. My husband’s name is Matthew.”

“Aha. Okay.”

The door opened and two couples came in, bringing with them a trace of moonlight. Beyond them was the same street she knew, a slice of inky sky. Cars and trucks took this corner too fast, and Sarah imagined being in one of those cars, driving out of the city, out of her life entirely. Leda’s absence, she realized, was the center of her life. She’d chosen to make it so. She watched as the couples deliberated and Alex attentively offered them tastes of what was on draft, giving a lengthy description of a local IPA. He rolled up his sleeves with particular care; she expected some ink but there was none. By the time he made his way back to Sarah, she’d finished her drink. She smoothed bills down on the sticky wood.

“Going already?”

She nodded. “Did you ever serve food here?”

“Why? You hungry?”

She shook her head and looked over at the couples, laughing and touching each other’s arms. “I met your father. That’s why I came in here. He recommended it. I met him on the subway and he asked me for directions.”

“You met my father on the subway?”

“I don’t know why I didn’t mention it right away.” Alex’s eyes were brown, his skin many shades darker than his father’s. “He seemed like a nice man.”

He nodded. “My father—”

“I was in a strange mood when he struck up a conversation”—she leaned forward—“but, actually, he seemed like more than a nice man. He seemed like a remarkable person, and—”

“My father has dementia,” Alex said matter-of-factly. “He’s not supposed to leave his house in Yonkers without the attendant. He shows up sometimes, but he doesn’t remember. He thinks that I’m a world-class chef.”

“Oh.” Sarah could feel her lips pressing tightly together. For one brief moment, she had to close her eyes. “Oh.”

Leda was gone. She knew this. Stop making me say it, Matthew yelled, the night she returned from Baja, his voice hoarse with tears. After a lifetime of shunning exercise, he started running the very next morning.

“That must be painful,” she said.

“Of course it is. It’s also a pain in the ass.”

It was quiet between them and then it was silent.

“I’m Sarah.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.

Sometimes she thought she had nothing left: no more despair, no more desire. She was always wrong.

SARAH HAD BEEN BREATHLESS on that beach. Mainly from so much walking and the sun and wind, but also the phenomenal beauty. The sky was the same bright Pacific sky that loomed above her Pasadena rental, but it looked entirely different next to the jutting cliffs, next to the lush palm groves in the distance, so dense they looked black.