The driver’s soft knock on the front door came at precisely 4:57 a.m. He never gave me his name. His voice mail last night, with his smooth baritone, gave no indication of his appearance. He had gray combed back hair, almost Brill creamed. He was more like a maitre d’ than a driver, wearing a dark suit jacket snug over a mannequin’s build and possessed with an unharried pace.
Kim was finishing her packing upstairs. She had a cough. Persistent. Phlegmy. Because of the cough she had slept little. I slept fitfully in the guest bedroom and she had woken me with a start at 4:30 a.m., standing backlit in the spare bedroom’s doorway, exclaiming it was time to get up two minutes before my cell phone alarmed anyway.
The driver wheeled my suitcase out the front door to the car. He loaded it in the trunk. As he waited outside, I scurried around the house, working through my checklist – turn down heat on the thermostat, close the blinds, set water heater to vacation mode, program light timers. We finally left the house at 5:15 a.m.
The driver looked skyward. He remarked that it was nice that it wasn't raining, unusual for a March day in Seattle. He pointed out the two dinky bottles of Arrowhead brand water on the arm rest between Kim and I. The remnant of the drive to SeaTac was silent as I glanced at the full moon moving in and out of bright clouds. Kim reached over the armrest between us and laid her hand on my left arm; my hand clung stubbornly to my knee. I could hear her breathing in and out of her mouth, sinuses congested. The driver helped to unload the suitcases from the trunk of the town car after I scribbled my signature on a pink receipt. We shook hands. “Thank you Mr. Flynn.” He wished us a good trip. Kim walked away pulling her wheelie into the terminal, bent over, coughing.
Bright eyed and bushy tailed
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