“We could be twins,” she said, a chatty Cathy. Not quite. I was older and thirty pounds heavier, which is why zumba. She’s a little thing, ponytail pulled so tight I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. While we were waiting for the instructor, she told me a story about her aunt who’d raised twins, neither of them hers, the way you’d bring stray cats into the house. Every week Cathy had another update offered in five-minute segments before the music began. She told me about a guy from her work who’d sailed in a balloon to Mexico because he was writing about hot-air vacations and never wanted to come down. Or a neighbor who sold his ice-cream truck route for $100,000, and then someone with two tiny uteruses who was going to be interviewed by People magazine. I always stood near her.“Was that like your auntie? The one who raised the twins?” She didn’t answer. The music began. It was time for warm-ups. I saw her once more, and then no more. Now I’m on the elliptical feeling like a Clydesdale horse. Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.
