“Bye, Sylvia,”
“Bye, David. Have a nice day.”
“You’ll be alright, won’t you?” Every winter since she left California, Sylvia developed a low-grade sniffle—as though the air in the rest of the world did not agree with her.
She gave him her usual loving, vacant smile.
“I’ll putter around a bit. You know. I’m still finding socks and sneakers and odds and ends from when the Siemens and the Hunters were here.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, really.”
“What are you doing with them?”
“I’m putting them all in a sack.”
“We can take them back the next time we go to the States.”
“Or send them with a friend.”
“Or mail them.”
“In the diplomatic pouch.”
“Or bury them in the garden.”
They laughed. He kissed her.
“Take it easy now.”
“Okay,” she said. “Maybe I’ll sit in the sun.”
* * *
The road to
