He’s waiting in line to complete a task that would take ten seconds. He’s been waiting five minutes. The end of the day is a cloudless charcoal-blue, and the word on the street is that everyone will leave their offices in about ten minutes, at which point the drive home will seem near impossible. This doesn’t cause him any anxiety. He envisions it as a flow of water following the same paths after every rain; an ephemeral stream.
He makes eye contact with the woman behind the counter. Probably around his age, she has short dark hair in the pixie style and an extended oval face her chin protruding slightly, like a jellybean, he thinks. She knows everyone in line, the regulars dropping off company-related packages. He would become one too in a matter of Fridays and Mondays. They make eye contact again.
They meet for coffee after work and speak about the banalities of office life, about art and recent books read, about his favorite houseplants and her orange tabby. He neglects to mention that he doesn’t brake for cats, but takes in and gives milk to the homeless. They look at each other with that shimmering excitement that comes from barely scratching the surface of a first encounter. Mutual attraction, a purchase made after learning just a few of the facts.
They take walks in some of the open spaces that litter the town. She smirks as he scratches the back of his head, the other hand on his hip, having led them to another exit. He makes a Woody Allen-like comment about the rules governing labyrinths. From a distance, they stand within the bending tallgrass, an Impressionist scene.
He meets her cat, who immediately takes a liking to him. She goes to make tea the old-fashioned way. There are textiles everywhere, draped over the couch and pinned on the wall. When a breeze enters in a million pieces through the open screen door, everything flows, like the ephemeral stream he envisioned, like living in a tent. In her bedroom, copies of Alice in Wonderland and the Tao Te Ching are found within the tousled bed sheets, as if she slept with them. His turn comes to smirk.
They walk to the grocery store to harvest the ingredients that would become a stay-in dinner. The newness is subsided and most of the stories have been told, and retold. They now have that comfort of proximity, without feeling trapped, for which most relationships hope. The day is a charcoal-blue; clouds wreathe the horizon as if they had tried to climb the dome of sky and slid back down.
The line is gone. He completes his transaction in the estimated ten seconds, and is out the door, and on the road.
