In the parking lot, he pops the trunk and procures a pair of bowling shoes.

He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t say anything. There are no comments to be made about the shoes, about the fact that he owns his own bowling shoes, which he apparently keeps in the trunk of his car. There are many comments that could be made, but none of them are. I don’t really feel like making fun of him. I actually find it kind of endearing that he’s got a pair of bowling shoes in his trunk, and that he doesn’t feel the need to offer me any explanation.

When we get inside, I’m surprised and delighted by the griminess of the place. It’s got tacky eighties decor and fluorescent lighting and smells like feet. It’s authentic. All the bowling alleys in the city are dark and posh and have exposed brick and serve cocktails and fish tacos. Here, you can get pitchers of beer, hot dogs, soft pretzels, nachos, cheese fries, and probably a staph infection.

I get my shoes and we’re assigned our lane. It’s one of the good lanes against the wall, which I guess doesn’t really matter because the place is empty.

I sit and take off my heels, then put on my wonderfully ugly bowling shoes.

Ian’s busy punching our names into the computer.

“I’m gonna get us beer,” I say.

I limp over to the bar, the bowling shoes pinching my feet. I order us a five-dollar pitcher of some very pale, very shitty-looking beer. As I’m walking back with the pitcher, trying my best not to spill it as it overflows with foam, I glance up and take in the image of him. This view of his back.

He doesn’t look the way he did in high school. He’s taken a different shape. He’s a different person. He’s grown up. It occurs to me that maybe I don’t know him anymore. Maybe I don’t know him at all.

Our dynamic, too. It’s not what it was. I don’t have all the power anymore. I’m not in full control. Because I care. Because I want him.

I sip some of the beer straight from the pitcher.

“You first,” he says.

“Are you a good bowler?” I ask him. “Is that why you asked me to go bowling?”

“No,” he says. “Not particularly.”

I select a dark purple ball. I don’t really love the idea of sticking my fingers in these holes. Who knows the last time these balls were sanitized? But I guess I’ve done worse.

“Then why’d you take me bowling?” I ask him.

“Seemed like your kind of thing,” he says. “You don’t like to sit still.”

“Mm,” I say.

It’s true. Maybe I don’t know him anymore, but he knows me.

I let the ball go, and it doesn’t really roll so much as soar a few inches over the lane. When it smashes into the pins, the sound is loud and violent. I worry I broke something.