Departures, Terminal B, Gate 7
art by Nora Kelly
The trip had been a success, the vacation a failure.
They occupied a row in the waiting area: her husband, his wife, their baggage, and finally his brother with his carry-on duffle across his legs, one end pointing at the silent couple. The negotiation that brought the brothers here had gone well, better than they’d expected, their financial security now assured.
She had swum in the ocean while they donned suits, the waves wild, the sun blistering, the grains of sand scratching her nail polish. On the beach, she sported a white straw hat and tinted glasses, one knee raised.
That night, last night, her skin still hot to the touch, they’d celebrated with champagne. With ripe strawberries. The woman drank more than her husband liked, and so she’d danced with the brother.
Later, lying in bed, her husband saw a rectangle of light from the hotel hallway.
Heard the lock click.
This morning, the two of them awkward, the server at the restaurant fumbled plates, spilled coffee, apologized again and again.
Their driver to the airport kept drifting, causing other drivers to lean on their horns.
She said to her husband without looking at him, “We have to remember to pick up Macomber from the kennel.”
“I could drop you at home and go back out.”
This, they both realized, would be how they would talk to each other for a while yet, for perhaps too long, after which they wouldn’t need to navigate conversation with each other at all.
