A Parting

Thick, round, heavy rivets bound the massy painted layers of steel that supported the throng of passengers and seers-off who hugged, laughed, cried, and conspired to smuggle illicit bottles of vodka and rum disguised as purified water.

"I guess this is goodbye," Ellen said.

"I guess so," Richard replied.

Ellen was not dressed for travel. She wore maroon sweat pants, a white sweatshirt with maroon lettering that spelled out "CSULB", and white sneakers with no socks.

Richard could not stop staring at her bare ankle. It was what attracted him to her in the first place. Long ago, they had both been working in an industrial kitchen, scraping food off airline crockery and dropping the dishes into a pool of ultrasonically vibrating water. Both of them were wearing standard issue pajama-like work uniforms, rubber gloves, and hair nets. But Ellen wore no socks, and Richard, without forethought, asked her if he could bite her ankle. She had said yes. Later, in bed, she told him she had not expected him to actually do it; he had turned her on and unlocked her heart. But now, this bit of exposed flesh had become a fetish for him; it was no longer part of the whole Ellen, and never really had been, for him.

"You know, I still can't believe you're going to do this," Ellen blurted.

"What's the difference? What do you care what I do? Why did you even want to see me off? I thought you didn't love me any more."

"I still care about you. Come on, Richard, we've been all through that. Look, I don't want to be here if it's too hard for you. I should go."

Panic seized him, and he dared not show it, lest she flee.

He gazed at her and breathed; he did not know what to say to make her stay, and had no idea what he might say that would give her cause to leave. He was afraid to speak, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Their relationship was a house of cards, the outer layers of which had already toppled, and the weight of the collapsed parts threatened what little structure was still intact. Richard knew that the least upset would bring it all down for good, and he was nowhere near being able to admit that to himself.

"You're gonna have a good time," she said hopefully.

He bristled, sensing pity. Every word wounded him. He could not reply without wincing. "Yeah. Yeah. It's gonna be great."

Neither of them believed that, but both needed it to be so.