Turn 61 of 228

Ask about the changes, the hair, the blouse, the pants. Afterwards, walk to the bodega and see what Diane buys.

The credits scroll and the theater empties and Lena turns to Diane and says, "You look different." Diane is still leaning back with the cheese on her chin and the blouse riding up and she doesn't sit up straighter the way she would have three weeks ago. She says, "I know." Lena says, "The hair. You never wear it down." Diane touches it — a reflex, the old instinct to manage — and then drops her hand. She says, "I stopped putting it up. It was something I did every morning because that's what managers do. Pulled-back hair. Clean lines. I stopped." She says it plainly, the way Lena says things now — without explanation, without apology.

Lena says, "The blouse." Diane looks down at herself — the untucked fabric, the sliver of soft skin at her waist, the small stain she hasn't treated or changed out of. She says, "I iron my shirts every Sunday. Have for years. I didn't iron this one. I didn't iron last Sunday's either. I put it on and it had a wrinkle and I wore the wrinkle to work and no one said anything and I kept not ironing." Her voice is steady but there's something underneath it — not the tightness from the sidewalk, not the shaking hands, but something lighter. Surprise, maybe. The surprise of discovering that a thing you thought was load-bearing actually isn't.

Lena says, "The pants." Diane is quiet for a moment. She looks at her own lap — the waistband pressing into the softness that wasn't there two weeks ago, the fabric straining slightly at the hip. She says, "I've been eating differently. Not like you — not the floor, not the — " She stops. "Just more. I've been cooking. Actual meals. I used to eat a salad at my desk and call it dinner and now I go home and I cook and I eat and I sit on my couch and I don't count anything. I've gained — I don't know. Five pounds. Maybe seven. I haven't weighed myself because weighing myself is something the old me did and the old me — " She stops again and her jaw moves and she looks at the screen. "The old me was exhausted."

They stand and walk out and the lobby is empty and the marquee glows and they walk east. The night is warm and Lena's bare feet slap the concrete and Diane's boots are steady and the leather jacket hangs open and the cheese is still on her chin. Lena doesn't mention it. They reach the bodega and the bell rings and the clerk looks up and looks down and Lena fills a basket without thinking — chips, cookies, two bottles of vodka, soda, jerky, donuts, a bag of gummy worms, a sleeve of Oreos — and then she waits. She leans against the counter and her belly rests on the edge and she watches Diane.

Diane stands in the aisle. She picks up a bag of tortilla chips and puts it in a basket — her own basket, a small green one hanging near the door. She picks up a jar of salsa. She stands in front of the candy section for a long time — longer than Lena has ever seen her stand in front of anything that wasn't a spreadsheet — and picks up a bar of dark chocolate and then a bag of peanut butter cups and puts both in the basket. She walks to the refrigerated section and takes a bottle of wine — not the cheap kind, not the bodega's usual — and holds it for a moment and puts it in the basket. Then she stops. She goes back to the candy section and picks up a second bag of peanut butter cups and stands there with it in her hand and looks at it and Lena watches her face and Diane's face is doing something Lena has never seen — it's deciding. Not managing. Not analyzing. Deciding. The way a person decides something when no one is keeping score. She puts the second bag in the basket.

They walk to the counter and the clerk rings them up separately and says, "Have a good night," and they walk outside and the night moves across them and Diane carries her basket with the chips and the salsa and the chocolate and the peanut butter cups — two bags — and the wine and her face is calm. Not the managed calm. The real kind. Lena says, "Two bags of peanut butter cups." Diane says, "I wanted two bags of peanut butter cups." Lena says, "Good." They walk west and the streetlights catch them both and the bodega hums behind them and the night is quiet and full.