Xanax

I was still flying higher than 30,000 feet, the medicated level necessary for my fear to finally descend, like the dreaded plummeting of the plane, when we came down with the evening rain at LaGuardia and then tripped across the High Line, while drops lit on our tongues upturned in wonder at the psychedelic skyline materializing above the shiny Village streets.

There you led me into a tiny restaurant, to a corner table tilting with tipsy spritzes, then the rum-soaked tiramisu. And as it arrived lit by a singular white candle, like a cigarette, I knew that you had left to smoke and signal the significance of the occasion to the staff, who lifted up the flame with a birthday chorus, the mischievous center solo of my name sung in your low tones.

Then you leaned over, your dark eyes twinkling like the city reflected in the ocean depths beneath our airplane wing, and you looked into mine. And for a moment, for the first and only time, I saw yours filled with something that seemed akin to contentment—or to love.

But maybe it was merely the candlelight. Or the vodka dilating your pupils in the gloom. The rain blurring my vision. The shift in time zones tricking my mind. Or was it in fact that small, white powdered pill, still sending me soaring like the plane? And if I took another, higher dose, perhaps I would look up, and you would look at me that way again.