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and feel like cooked spaghetti, pale and soggy.
    I’m lying on my back on the thick mats that cover the entire floor of the climbing gym, trying to persuade more blood to flow into my throbbing arms. I tell Charles, “I had this gym teacher in middle school—”
    â€œMiddle school is how old?”
    â€œI was, like, twelve?”
    â€œAh. Okay.”
    â€œThis guy was a meathead. And one day we’re all trying to do pull-ups, right, and a buncha twelve-year-old girls, we’re not going to be able to do many. But I couldn’t do any, not even one. And this meathead gets right in my face”—I put a hand over my face, to show where he stood—“and he yells, ‘Upper-body strength, Coffey!’ And all I remember is this huge, red, bulging face. It was like my lack of ability to do a pull-up actually made him angry . Why would it make him angry?”
    Charles hands me a paper cup of water from the fountain and sits down next to me on the mat. He says, “I don’t know.”
    â€œI can do the biceps kind of pull-ups now, but I still can’t do the front ones. And it’s those front ones you need for this, huh?” I lean on my elbow and sip the water.
    â€œYou don’t need them, but they help,” he says. “The biceps kind is a chin-up.”
    â€œOh. Those are the ones I can do. Chin-ups. I can’t do any pull-ups.” I turn my face to him. “Can you do any pull-ups?”
    â€œI can,” he says, and I don’t think I’m imagining the smugness.
    So I say, “How many?”
    He gets up and walks over to the emergency exit door, over which is mounted a horizontal slab with a variety of grips molded into it. Charles jumps up and grabs it, and he starts doing pull-ups. Oh, this is hilarious and adorable. He’s showing off. When he gets to ten, I start counting out loud. At fifteen, he’s slowing down. He drags himself painfully through the twentieth, and then lets himself drop down to the floor. He walks back over the mats and sinks down next to me, breathing heavily and grinning. He lies back with his arms over his head, hands curled. There are veins standing out on his forearms. Dude. I know he was showing off, but it fucking worked.
    â€œThat’ll make the rest of today a challenge,” he says through his panting breath. He looks up at the ceiling and then puts his hands over his face and says, “God, what an idiot I am.”
    â€œWho’s Bridget?” I say.
    â€œHm?” he says, dropping his hands to the mat again.
    â€œWho’s Bridget? ‘Next time, brace yourself, Bridget.’”
    â€œI ought not to have said that. It’s a stupid, rather mean joke.” He pauses for a minute and then says to the ceiling, “What’s foreplay to an Irishman?”
    â€œOh, I see. ‘Brace yourself, Bridget,’” I finish. “That’s pretty funny.”
    We lie there, staring at the ceiling for a few more minutes, until Charles says, “Right, young Coffey,” as he drags himself up from the floor. “Let’s get out of here.”
    He holds out a hand to me. I take it, very aware of his calloused fingers against my swollen, red palm, and between us we manage to get me to my feet. In the lobby, I return the rented harness and shoes while Charles packs up his stuff—he has his own shoes and harness and a chalk bag and all kinds of stuff.
    I pull off my soggy socks, look at my mangled feet, and say, “Ah, memories.”
    â€œHm?”
    â€œThe bleeding blisters take me back to my innocent youth,” I tell him. “Pointe shoes.”
    â€œYou dance?” he asks.
    I’m surprised by the question. “Wow, you really do know nothing about me.”
    â€œThat’s what I was saying. Well, that explains why you climb so well for a novice. I’d have thought you were having me on, if you hadn’t been so nervous about