Out of the Blue by Sally Mandel

But there was only Joe whistling something upbeat and jazzy. I’m too tone deaf to recognize a song without the lyrics to clue me in.
    We parked in a lot that was surprisingly empty on such a crystalline day. “Everybody must be home working on their Halloween costumes,” I said.
    Joe reached into the backseat for his camera bag, then came around my side to help me out. I was pretty much dead weight after the long drive, and as soon as he had me out of the car, he started kissing me again. I’m tempted to blame all that kissing for my mishap, but I need to resist such puritanical rationalizations.
    We only had to walk about a hundred yards along a wooded path before he stopped and pointed. Across the meadow, it appeared as if an entire section of the earth had suddenly shot up twenty stories, exposing the expanse of rock that I recognized from a photograph in his apartment. It loomed like a sublime sculpture, sheer and black above the soft maze of the autumn landscape.
    “Wow,” I said.
    “The light in this place can fry your brain.” Joe began twisting a lens onto his camera. “Can you walk over there with me, or do you want to wait here?”
    The ground was level enough and it felt good to move a little. We were soon at the bottom of the cliff and I could see the natural trail that zigzagged up the face. I thought the view must be pretty staggering from up there. I said to Joe, “Have you ever climbed it?”
    But he took me by the shoulders, too single-minded to answer or probably even hear me. “Stand right here,” he said.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Taking your photograph.”
    “I thought you don’t do people.” The moment I said it, I remembered the back flap of Lola’s book. I thought I might bring it up but I could see that Joe was totally absorbed. His camera was clicking, clicking, and he kept changing my position. I liked having his hands on me and gave myself over to playing Georgia O’Keeffe to his Stieglitz. Finally, he had me sit and lean against the rocks, holding my knees. The way his eyes assessed me as part of the visual field felt both impersonal and extremely intimate. He reached over to arrange my hair against my shoulders.
    “I wish I could somehow reveal it, the softness,” he said, more to himself than to me. “I guess it’s too cold for you to take off your clothes.”
    “Excuse me?” I said.
    “I’d like to photograph you naked against the rock.”
    “Oh, fine,” I said. “Goose bumps should make an interesting texture.” But he wasn’t paying any attention and was already half kneeling to get the shot. Lola had looked so sickeningly healthy in her photo, all those white teeth and that blond hair blowing in the wind. It was a familiar little twisting sensation, jealousy. I couldn’t see why the MS lesions didn’t toast that ugly section of my brain instead of the part that kept me setting one foot down in front of the other. There’s no justice.
    “Did you ever climb up to the top?” I asked Joe again as he changed the film.
    “Yes,” he said absently.
    I wondered if Lola had been with him. “It must be very beautiful,” I said.
    “Incredible.”
    “I’d like to do it.”
    He looked up.
    “It doesn’t seem that steep.”
    His dubious expression only spurred me. “No, it’s okay. I’m not completely helpless, you know.” I scrambled to my feet. “Come on. I’ll race you to the top.”
    “Are you sure, Anna? I don’t think—”
    “It’ll be good for me,” I said. “I need to.”
    As he zipped his camera into its case, I remember thinking, Okay, Anna, there’s still time to get yourself out of this. Don’t be such a complete ass. But then I thought about how fit I used to be. Seven years ago, I’d gone hiking in the Sierra Nevadas with thirty pounds on my back. Those mountains made this sucker look like a road bump.
    The path was well-worn and smooth at first. I suppose a lot of would-be climbers had set off with brave intentions. But soon