It was strange

A few months ago, my college friend from LA said she was coming to New York. Today, she finally called to say she was on the plane. But on that very day, I got a stomachache. I thought it would go away after a day of rest, but it didn’t. It lasted for several days. I had no energy and couldn’t even get out of bed. I tried to go outside with my shopping cart, but my legs were shaking, so I came back and lay down again.

It felt like I was pretending to be sick just to avoid her. But she didn’t give up—she kept calling, asking to meet. The weather had been hot, but strangely, that day it turned chilly. She showed up wearing a colorful coat a friend in New York gave her, and her hair was almost completely shaved. How long had it been since we last met? Maybe ten years ago, when she visited New York.

“You haven’t aged at all. No wrinkles. Your eyes didn’t even droop,”
she said, staring closely at my face.
I replied,
“Your eyes must be really bad. Put on your glasses and take a better look. I’ve aged a lot.”
We both laughed and said silly things, trying to comfort each other about getting old.

It was strange. I had been so sick, but that day, I wasn’t cold or in pain. As we walked arm in arm, a wave of old friendship rose up from deep inside my chest. She said she wanted peanuts from a street vendor, so I bought them for her. I wanted to buy her everything she asked for. She also seemed worried about my thin clothes and kept saying she wanted to buy me something warmer. We walked and rested, then walked some more, all around Manhattan. We went into the Museum of Modern Art, and when we came out, it was already getting dark.

Something was off. My friend, who never used to smoke, kept lighting cigarettes.
Then she suddenly asked,
“You still go on and on about small things like they’re big problems. That must mean you’re doing okay, huh?”
She didn’t really wait for my answer. With a sad face, she looked up at the sky in silence.

Then, as if something heavy had hit her from above, her eyes filled with tears, and she cried hard—but only for a moment.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked.
“My oldest son died.”
I was speechless.
“Can I have a cigarette too?”
It had been decades since I last asked for one.
“His memorial day is coming up. I’ve been holding back my tears, but I couldn’t anymore.”
We leaned against a wall and said nothing, just smoked. I wished I could burn down an entire field with the fire from our cigarettes—if only that could somehow comfort her. My heart ached, and tears kept coming.

I held her arm even tighter, and we walked silently through the dark streets, not even thinking about going home. She kept saying she wanted something warm, maybe to ease the pain in her chest. We went into a Japanese restaurant, and we buried her sad face in a bowl of shrimp udon, quietly slurping the noodles.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that happened. Let’s meet again. We have to stay healthy if we want to see each other again,” I told her.

We said goodbye. She stood in a dark alley, leaning against the wall, blowing out smoke. I turned and walked away, leaving her heavy shadow behind. My legs felt like they were being pulled out of deep mud—so heavy, so hard to move.