#social anxiety

Shira had been inside the fair for four minutes when she realized, with some irritation, that she was having a good time.

This was unacceptable.

The building had once been a furniture warehouse and still looked faintly prepared to resume that function at any moment. High windows ran along one brick wall. Steel beams crossed the ceiling. Folding tables had been arranged in long rows beneath hanging signs marked VINYL, AUDIO, CAMERAS, GAMES, and, for reasons no one had explained, MISC. FORMAT.

The air smelled like coffee, old cardboard, warm electronics, and the particular dusty sweetness of record sleeves that had spent several decades in basements.

From somewhere near the entrance, a stereo was playing New Order.

From somewhere else, somebody was testing a cassette deck with what sounded like Steely Dan.

A third booth was playing ska at a volume that suggested a personal grievance.

Shira adjusted the strap of her bag and kept walking.

“This is amazing,” Sumi said.

Shira looked at her.

“You've been here three minutes.”

“I know.”

Sumi was standing in front of a table containing portable radios, alarm clocks, a translucent purple telephone, and several appliances whose purposes had apparently been forgotten by history.

She picked up a squat orange object with a cord.

“What is this?”

Freya glanced over.

“Fondue pot.”

Sumi stared at it.

“You can have a machine just for fondue?”

“You can have a machine for almost anything.”

Shira had been at the beach for eleven minutes when Sumi announced that she was healing.

“I can see it happening,” Sumi said.

Shira lowered her sunglasses. “What?”

“Healing.”

“From what?”

Sumi gestured broadly at her.

They were standing outside a small rental cottage two blocks from the water. Sumi had already changed into shorts and a blue camisole and was carrying a canvas bag containing sunscreen, three oranges, a paperback she would not open, two bottles of water, and enough food to survive a minor maritime disaster.

Freya had gone back inside because she had forgotten her running watch.

Shira regarded Sumi for several seconds.

“I’m going home.”

“You can’t. Freya has the car keys.”

“I’ll walk.”

“It’s four hours.”

“I have music.”

This was true. An old silver iPod Classic was clipped inside Shira’s bag, its scratched back polished smooth in places from years of use.

Sumi brightened. “Perfect! A healing walk.”

Shira put her sunglasses back on.

Freya came out of the cottage already wearing her watch.

“I found a seven-kilometer loop for tomorrow morning,” she said.

“Of course you did,” said Shira.

“It follows the coast.”

“That almost makes it sound recreational.”

“It is recreational.”

“You timed yourself brushing your teeth yesterday.”

“That was an experiment.”

Sumi took Shira by the wrist. “Come on. Ocean.”

They started toward the beach.

Shira had agreed to this trip six weeks earlier, at dinner, under conditions she now regarded as legally questionable. Sumi had made dumplings with roasted mushrooms, scallions, and something involving browned butter that neither Shira nor Freya had expected to work. It had been astonishing. Freya had told her she could sell them for eighteen dollars a plate. Sumi had looked horrified.