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  • The Only People on Earth
  • Ally Glass-Katz (bio)

Matt decides we should open our marriage.

"I think it makes sense," he says. "You're gone for months at a time."

"On mountains," I say. "There's no one to sleep with up there."

"Your clients."

"I can't sleep with my clients."

"Other guides then," he suggests.

We're at Chez Panisse. The walls are wood-paneled and dark. They cast shadows over Matt's forehead and nose, cutting his face in sections. He's put on weight. Fat pads hang around his eyes like clouds.

"Are you asking for a divorce?"

Matt tears a piece of bread and dips both sides in olive oil. "I don't want to control the narrative," he says.

"But that's exactly what you're doing."

"I don't think so."

I lean forward; feel the skin stretch out around my mouth, readying it to say all the other things I've said before, all the things Matt won't want to hear again. But then the waitress drifts by, brandishing a pitcher, and I sit back—tilt my glass toward my lips and sip.

"You're young," Matt says. "You should explore a little."

"You're young too," I say, which is true. He turns 40 this year.

"Your late twenties are for messing around," Matt says. "We'll have kids soon. Go on a couple dates."

I don't want to go on couple dates—because I love Matt and because he is an astronomy professor with constant access to women younger than me. But I don't say that. Instead I drink until the water runs down my cheeks. Pools in my lap and falls to the floor.

________

One week later, I meet a Tinder date at Indian Rock. The sun is setting, slung back in the sky. Rays slide through the oaks, carving red grids on the slab.

"I'm married," I tell him.

"I'm Ronny," he says. [End Page 21]

We're standing far apart, climbing mats slung over our backs like shells. Through the trees, we can just make out the university, the tower grey against the pale sky.

"Can I climb with you?" I ask.

Ronny shoves his hands in his pockets and looks up at the rock from under his ball cap. His eyes are grey and filmy, as if no one has cleaned them in a while and they're clogged with dust.

"It's a public park," he says.

We lay our mats on the ground and climb. The rock overhangs. I keep falling. Each time I hit the mat, chalk mushrooms above me, blending with the fog. Ronny does it easy. He brushes my hair back, explains the crux. I tighten my shoes and sweep pine needles out from under the boulder and climb until my left leg is chimneyed in the crack, my right arm reaching.

"Yes," Ronny says, and I smack the ground, back arched; like slipping through layers of sand.

We stop when the sky goes dark. Across the bay, both bridges burn.

"This was fun," I say, rubbing the knots in my shoulders and neck.

"You bet," Ronny says.

His eyes are pennies, his lips cherry red.

________

When I get home, Matt's not there. I leave all the lights on—like I'm sending out a distress signal. I lay in bed and watch the door and flinch when a branch brushes the window, shriek at the sound of the wind blowing through the chimes. I read the police blogs—think how furious I'll be if I'm murdered while Matt's flirting with a student. Eventually, I fall asleep. When I wake hours later, Matt's beside me. He's snoring, his body wrapped in the sheets. I shake him. "Where were you?" I lean across his chest. "I know you can hear me." He says nothing. I lie awake for hours. I feel like the last person on earth. Like leaving the house with no key and knowing you'll have to call a stranger to let you back in.

In the morning, Matt kisses my forehead.

"Did you try...

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