Trip to the Airport
posted at 2:58 am
on Sep. 12, 2008
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I crawled quietly into bed last night at about ten after two. Susie was awake. She had been up packing for her trip to Florida, where she’s speaking at a conference, and talking late on the phone with a friend.
“What time is the alarm set for?” I asked.
“5:30,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Ah,” I said.
* * *
The alarm goes off. It is 5:30. I stumble out of bed, pull on new jeans, but t-shirt, socks and belt from where they’d been left on the floor the night before.
Water splashed on face. Ripe cell phone plucked from its charging vine. Shoes. Why is it so hard to find matching shoes before dawn? Those ones are both white, that’ll do.
“Do you have any spare Canadian?”
“I’ll get your luggage.”
“I’ll turn on the alarm.”
“Are you good to drive?”
We turn on to Oak St. Six blocks later, I turn on the headlights.
* * *
By the time we get to the airport, I don’t need the headlights.
I drop Susie off at departures. I don’t walk in with her; you have to head into customs right away now after you check in, and you have to check in right away to get a non-middle seat. We hug and kiss. I feel strangely anesthetized, and I wish to myself that the air was crisper.
She rolls away with my carry-on luggage.
* * *
Minutes later, she remembers I didn’t give her any Canadian money.
* * *
That afternoon, I remember I didn’t give her any Canadian money.
