I learned to wander. I learned what every dreaming child needs to know—that no horizon is so far that you cannot get above it, or beyond it. These things I learned at once. But most things come harder.
—Beryl Markham
I
Two hours into a flight from San Francisco to Houston on a spring day in 2015 a Virgin America Airbus A340-300 talked to Mary Lee Willits. She was in a business class window seat reviewing a summary judgment motion drafted by Larry Bea, one of Drucker, Feldman & Schaeffer, LLP’s less-than-stellar young associates. Mary Lee detested wasting time, and reviewing shoddy work was high on the list of things that did just that and consequently pissed her off. She went through the draft with a red felt-tip pen like an elementary school teacher. Larry could use some schooling, she thought as she circled another citation error. The red would be lost in the faxed version she’d send Larry this evening but covering his work in the color of blood gave Mary Lee a measure of contentment and made her feel like the hour wasn’t a complete loss, billable or not.
Mary Lee couldn’t crack the mystery of her dysfunctional relationship with time. By any reasonable estimation she’d spent hers exceedingly well. She grew up with two older brothers in a town north of San Francisco. Being the youngest and the only girl gave her an extra shot of competitiveness out the gate. In high school she was a Presidential Scholar and captain of the girls’ volleyball team. Her prom pictures were in the town society pages. She was accepted at the Ivies but decided on Stanford to be closer to home, since forty years of Baby Boomer living had taken its toll on her parents, especially her dad. She was in the top of her class and after Stanford Law she joined a premier firm, worked for the most ambitious partners, and won most of her cases and nearly all her motions. Two years ago she became the firm’s youngest partner. She brought in some big clients and paid cash for a million-dollar townhouse in SOMA with a view of the bay and a balcony just big enough for a barbeque.
One of the only black marks was a failed marriage, but even then she didn’t waste time. She’d given Mike precisely one chance to explain the lipstick on his collar that wasn’t hers. His eyes had dropped and he’d mumbled a half-baked (it was more like a quarter-baked) excuse about hugging a coworker. Her first phone call the next morning was to a law school classmate who specialized in family law. No agonizing, no couples therapy (in the Bay Area even half the stable couples she knew were in therapy), no sobbing over glasses of Pinot Noir with girlfriends. She gave Mike a week to clear out and went to stay with her parents. She’d been single for the three years since, with the exception of a deeply satisfying rebound with the contractor she hired, rather fittingly, to redo the bedroom to eliminate vestiges of what’s-his-name. These days she lived alone but never felt lonely. It could be argued, as the Airbus crossed the New Mexico border, that she hadn’t wasted so much as a minute of her thirty-eight years.
Yet when the flight attendants came by with the drink cart and she paused her evisceration of Larry’s version of practicing law to order a ginger ale, she felt the dread sense of time slipping away. It came on like an unpleasant case of déjà vu, and it had been happening more often lately. She could be sitting in Dolores Park on a Sunday afternoon eating a food truck pupusa (her favorite) and it would hit her: she was losing time. It was a physical feeling akin to what some people might call an anxiety attack. She imagined it was like living with a chronic health condition your doctor said might but probably wouldn’t kill you: deep down you knew you were okay but every now and again the worst case scenario kicked its way into your imagination and started knocking over furniture.
The flight attendant, a twenty-something guy with expensive hair and excellent skin, said, Uh, Miss—your ginger ale.
Mary Lee realized she’d been staring out the window while he poured her drink. She reached for it. Sorry. Spacing out.
His smile combined sarcasm, condescension, and politesse as only a hip young flight attendant on a hip young airline can. It happens. I’d like to space out but I have to serve drinks.
She almost replied, Don’t strain yourself, honey, but held her tongue. Engaging a snarky flight attendant was an excellent way to waste time. She set the ginger ale on her tray and went back to work.
A half-hour later she needed a break from the grammar apocalypse. She slipped the motion into her carry-on and tapped the menu on her entertainment screen. Playing a game or watching TV for a few minutes wasn’t wasting time. It was a brain break, and breaks were necessary. She scrolled the options on the touch screen and chose a game called Word Slam, in which you had two minutes to come up with as many words as possible out of ten letters. It was mental exercise, definitely not time-wasting.
While the game loaded she glanced around the cabin. Her seatmate, a man in his fifties whose pinstripe suit and slight paunch suggested he spent a lot of his time sitting in business class, was snoring lightly. Most everyone else was dozing, too. It was an 8:00 a.m. flight and people had boarded in the semi-conscious daze of morning travel. What a waste of time, thought Mary Lee, shaking her head. You took the early flight so you could work in the air and still have part of the day left when you landed.
The screen beeped. She popped the little remote control out of the center console and prepared to give her brain a little spin class when her hand stopped dead in mid-air. She would forever remember it as the first time in her life she quite literally did not believe her eyes. In orange letters the screen said: Time’s a-wastin’, Mary Lee. Time’s a-wastin’.
The phrase blinked and changed colors. It flashed like an old-fashioned Las Vegas neon sign and the letters got bigger and smaller like the old Windows screensaver. Mary Lee shook her head and blinked. She rubbed them like a cartoon character. The phrase bounced across the screen.
It’s a trick, she thought. Or it’s part of some hidden camera show and I’m supposed to lose my marbles before Donnie Osmond steps out of the lavatory with a microphone and everyone laughs.
And yet… Time’s a-wastin’, Mary Lee. It was what she said to herself whenever she felt unproductive. She had no idea where she’d first heard the expression but she liked the country ring to it. It was a sort of mantra. And now it was flashing at her from an airplane video screen.
Mary Lee reached for the flight attendant button over her seat. As soon as she pushed it and heard the ding the message vanished. A moment later the Word Slam logo and mascot, a little orange creature that looked like a cross between Elmo and a sick ostrich, flickered across the screen.
Ginger Ale Boy appeared. Yes?
She realized asking him about the screen would be a waste of time. She said, I’m sorry, I had a question but I managed to answer it.
He sighed theatrically. Of course you did. He reached up and clicked the button. Let us know if there’s anything else we can do. He flounced away.
The remainder of the flight was uneventful. Still, Mary Lee was on edge during her thirty-six hours in Houston. She was there to defend a client’s deposition, a task most litigators found mundane but that she relished. She defended her clients’ depos aggressively and strategically.
At least, she usually did. This time her mind kept wandering from the conference room. She stared over the Houston skyline like she’d stared out the airplane window. Time’s a-wasting, Mary Lee, Time’s a-wasting. She nearly missed key objections and by the end of the second day her client asked if she was feeling okay. She played it off, reassured him they’d made a good record. She left out the part about the talking screen.
II
It happened again on the return flight. This time she hadn’t even activated her screen. Two hours into the flight she glanced up from the Third Circuit case she was reading. The letters were red and they repeated across the screen until it was full: You have all the time in the world, Mary Lee, all the time in the world.
For the first time, she felt something start to come loose. It was as if she’d been pedaling a bicycle up a hill when all of a sudden the chain slipped. It threw off not only her progress but her balance.
She pushed the flight attendant button. As before, the screen went blank. A woman roughly her age with a pleasant, plump face and a bob that would have been at home in a 1960s Pan-Am ad, strolled to her row. What can I do for you?
Mary Lee relaxed slightly beneath the woman’s bright-as-the-sun-at-35,000-feet smile. She felt more than a bit silly when she asked, I was just wondering whether the airline ever tests new programs on the entertainment screens. Mine seems to be acting funny, and it’s the second time in as many flights.
The attendant furrowed her perfectly-plucked eyebrows in a sort of mock consternation that Mary Lee figured had been good for a lot of cocktails from businessmen in airport bars over the years. I haven’t heard of anything like that. What happened?
Mary Lee felt the slip again and suddenly realized what her answer—her real answer—would sound like. A fruitcake in an Armani, that’s what. She demurred, Oh, it acted funny when I was playing the word game—Word Slam. It kept giving me too many points and restarting.
Mary Lee’s lame excuse wouldn’t have fooled a sixth-grader, but the attendant was in half-listening mode, her eyes flitting toward a crying baby in the main cabin. Well at least it was a good glitch. To tell you the truth they’re still working out a lot of kinks in the entertainment system. On a flight last month every screen got stuck on an old Barbara Streisand movie on loop for six hours and we couldn’t turn off the main cabin sound. By the fourth time she sang “Memories” people were ready to jump out of the emergency exits.
Mary Lee laughed as the attendant straightened up and prepared to beeline for the now-screaming infant. I’ll ask the head steward; maybe she has some information. She clicked the orange button off.
Mary Lee waved a hand. Oh, that’s okay. I’m sure it’s just a little software bug. Don’t bother the steward. You guys have better things to do.
Are you sure?
Yes. I think I’m going to take a nap, anyway. Thank you.
For the first time in her life Mary Lee slept the rest of the way through the flight.
She woke with a start. She’d slept through not only the flight but the landing and taxiing. In fact the plane was nearly empty, only a few stragglers with kids and an elderly Chinese couple still making their way to the door. She unbuckled her belt and started to stand when the screen blinked again. You have all the time in the world, Mary Lee.
She said out loud, Well, which is it?
The Chinese couple looked at her as they passed and she smiled embarrassedly. Fruitcake in an Armani is right, she thought.
She hurried through SFO’s International Terminal where time was a tangible presence and everyone was at its mercy: arrival times, departure times, delays, connections, layovers, cancellations. People hustling to make final boarding calls before time cut them off. She passed a Beats headphone stand and heard a snippet of a Rolling Stones song, Mick Jagger crooning, Tieee-aye-ee-ime, is on my side, yes it is… The distressingly gorgeous poster models in the window of the Tag Heur watch shop leered at her. Everywhere people were checking watches, looking at clocks, pulling out smartphones to check the time. The time, the time, the time, which was sending Mary Lee’s world spinning into chaos.
She nearly burst through the terminal doors into the cold Frisco evening. Her ride, a black Uber SUV, was just pulling curbside and she got in without waiting for the surprised driver to open the door. As he accelerated up the viaduct toward the crowded Highway 101 he said, Sorry I was a little late. We’ve had a busy evening with the convention and all. Time flies when you’re having fun!
Mary Lee winced. Sometimes it does even when you’re not.
He laughed. True that. Ever notice how everything they come up with to make life more convenient seems to just make everything move faster instead?
Oh, great, a philosophical Uber driver. She settled back in her seat and took an exaggerated breath. I’m just glad to be home and have a few minutes to relax.
He got the hint. He turned on NPR. Terry Gross was interviewing the new Cosmos guy, Neil deGrasse Tyson. Dr. Tyson was saying, Put simply, time dilation means the faster you travel through space the slower you travel through time. In nineteen seventy-one scientists put atomic clocks aboard two airliners, one traveling east, that is, with the earth’s rotation, and one traveling west against it. They kept a third clock on the ground. The eastbound plane traveled through space faster than the one traveling west because it had a cosmic tailwind. Relative to the clock on the ground the east-traveling plane lost about fifty nanoseconds, while the plane traveling west gained about fifty nanoseconds. So even on an airliner you’re experiencing the relativity of time, and we can prove it—
Mary Lee nearly shouted, Oh, come on!
The driver looked at her in the rearview. Sorry, traffic’s lousy tonight.
She didn’t hear. She jammed her earbuds into her ears and listened to Pandora while she scrolled through the roughly seventy-five emails she’d received during her nap on the plane. She only half-read them because her mind was trying desperately to rationalize the mysterious messages. Maybe it was a joke, or maybe it was some airline employee’s idea of an inspirational message, like the ones they insist on putting inside iced tea lids.
Of course! She smacked her forehead and nearly laughed out loud. The driver gave her another glance. These days it seemed every company thought the best way to connect with customers was through banalities from people like John Lennon and Joan Baez. Time’s a-wastin’ was just the sort of faux-folksy message a hip airline like Virgin America would trot out. As for her name, well, she was on the flight manifest, wasn’t she? The second message was a little more abstract but it still made sense. Especially if the kid coming up with the inspirational phrases was a stoned college intern. As for the Stones song and the hundred clocks in the terminal, well, of course she’d noticed them more than normal.
As they slowed in South San Francisco traffic Mary Lee took out her earbuds. She liked Fresh Air, and Cosmos was in her Netflix queue. Terry was asking Dr. Tyson more about the relativity of time. The last thing she heard Dr. Tyson say was, The more I learn about the cosmos the less convinced I am that some sort of benevolent force has anything to do with it at all.
Damn right, Doc, thought Mary Lee as she dozed off.
III
It hasn’t turned out to be quite so simple. Mary Lee has begun to feel she’s slipping permanently, moving from one time into another without pause. She’d been resisting it but now she accepts it. She looks for signs but when she tries she sees nothing. It’s as if whatever is happening to her is by necessity in the periphery. It doesn’t want to be discovered. Yet for two months now she’s gotten messages on every single flight she’s taken. It’s gotten so she nearly has a panic attack the night before getting on a plane. She’s tried different airlines, different airports but nothing works. A United 767 out of Oakland told her, It’s true, time flies when you’re having fun, Mary Lee. Are you having fun? A Continental A350-200 from JFK to SFO said, No time like the present, Mary Lee, no time like the present.
At first they were clichés, but recently the messages have grown increasingly personal. An Alaska Airlines 737-400 asked, Are billable hours really more valuable than free ones, Mary Lee?
It’s affecting her sleep and her diet. Increasingly it’s affecting her work. Last week, for the first time in her career—no, in her life—she blew a deadline. Fortunately the court and her opposing counsel were decent about it (the result of ten years worth of goodwill in the system) but it’s shaken her to her core.
And so last Friday she did the unthinkable: told the partnership she needs some time off. Fortunately there’s a lull in her caseload and nothing on calendar for a month. She told the managing partner, her mentor and dear friend Thomas Kemp, that she needs a couple of weeks for health reasons. Tom didn’t hesitate in agreeing, another result of a decade of impeccable performance. He did say, I’ve noticed you looking pretty beat lately, Em-El. And I mean that out of concern. I figured you might ask for some time off after that deadline last—
Tom, that was a once-in-a-lifetime mistake. It will never, ever happen again.
He waved a hand. I don’t give a rip about the deadline. Even if it had cost the client. But I’m glad you’re taking a little leave. Start with a few weeks and let me know. You can have all the time you need.
Mary Lee nearly burst into tears in Tom’s fortieth floor corner office. The fact is she has no idea how much time she needs. After thrity-eight years of managing the clock perfectly, the irresistible motion of time has taken control of her life.
Here on the first Monday of what she’s calling her sabbatical she goes about her routine as usual. Only there’s nothing usual about it. She discovers how much her notion of time depended on her job. Before that it depended on graduate school, before that on university, before that on AP classes and sports, and on and on until the dawn of her memory. When she makes this discovery her first reaction is fear: she’s lived this way for thirty-eight years, and suddenly because of a few random messages she’s chucked it all.
And yet, as she finds herself holding a cup of coffee in her chef’s kitchen with nowhere to be, looking at the Sub Zero freezer and Wolf range and marble countertops she spent weeks picking out, the only thing in the world she cares about is, Holy God, this is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had!
She looks at her Cuisinart coffee maker, looks at her $14 a pouch gourmet coffee. It’s the same stuff she’s been making between 6:45 and 6:50 in the morning for ten years. But it tastes amazing, unlike any cup of coffee she’s ever had. What’s more, even though she’s technically wasting time with this sabbatical she doesn’t feel so much as a hint of unease. She can sense time passing, the sunlight growing brighter through the Frisco fog, the bluegreen digits on the oven clock flipping silently past. But she doesn’t care. She only cares about the best cup of coffee she’s ever had.
She says aloud to the kitchen, Why does this coffee taste so good?!
She’s considering various answers over some scrambled eggs when the fax grinds and churns in her home office. The fear makes a go at her, but she shakes it off and walks down the hallway. Probably something from Tom that’s not urgent enough to warrant an email or text. She’d asked him to keep her up to speed, lest she completely slip away.
She picks the fax off the floor. At least this time she isn’t shocked. She’s surprised, still, but also she’s beginning to get the hang of this thing. There’s no sender, no timestamp, no cover sheet. No phone number or indication that anyone or anything other than the machine itself sent the message. Just a single page with a single line in a font that reminds her of an old movie: It’s what you’re doing right now.
It’s the first time a message has responded to her directly. She figures it makes sense, too, in a tinfoil hat kind of way. She’s been drinking her coffee between 6:45 and 6:50 every morning for a decade, and like so much else in her life it was simply a means to an end. This is the first morning she’s bothered to taste it. And it’s damned good coffee. She says, For fourteen bucks, it better be.
Then again, maybe she just likes the taste of coffee. She wonders whether a cup of Chock Full O’ Nuts would taste equally good, or a cup of Instant Yuban. The taste in her mouth, the warmth coursing into her stomach, the little jolt of energy a few minutes later. Who knew? Mary Lee really, really likes coffee. She just never realized it.
A jet passes overhead and she knows what comes next: She needs to fly somewhere. It doesn’t matter where, she just needs to be on an airplane. Today. No, this morning. Like her morning coffee she’s always viewed airplanes as little more than conveyance devices. The coffee conveys caffeine into her system and gives her energy, an airplane conveys her from one city to another and lets her get work done or go on the rare, and usually working, vacation. Now the thought occurs to her if she can derive such pleasure from her morning java then getting on an airplane strictly for the enjoyment of it might be positively orgasmic.
She calls out, Where should I go?
The fax doesn’t grind, her computer doesn’t flash with any mysterious destination. She looks out the window to the foggy bay half-expecting a banner plane to buzz overhead towing a personal message to her.
She laughs at herself. Whoever or whatever is behind the messages won’t answer so directly. There’s a spontaneity to it, almost like she needs to catch it unawares, or maybe let it catch her unawares.
Thirty minutes later she’s in a Lyft Prius on the way to SFO. When the driver asks her what airline, she says, Surprise me.
IV
When the man in the aisle seat smiles at her she feels the same giddiness—the exact same, as a matter of fact—that she felt when she heard the plane fly over her house and she knew she had to travel. She realizes she’s been looking for a smile like his for a long time, maybe forever. Then again, and now she smiles herself, maybe she just started looking for it this instant. Or this morning. Or sometime last week when she decided about her sabbatical. It’s all the same, and it’s all relative.
Mary Lee tries to stifle a giggle and ends up snorting into her hand. She feels herself turn bright red but the man smiles the way you see people smile at works of art that catch them unawares. He hands her a handkerchief and even in her embarrassment the small act of chivalry is not lost on her, nor is his aftershave, the absence of a wedding ring, and the fact that he’s the sort of man who carries a handkerchief in the first place. He says, That’s the best thing I’ve seen in a while.
Mary Lee dabs her nose and eyes with the linen square. If you think that’s good, you should see me when I really get going.
He grins. A snorter, eh?
I’m pretty sure at least one boyfriend left me because of it.
Now he throws his head back and laughs a full-throated laugh that feels to her like a warm ocean breeze filling the cabin. Wow. Well, fortunately for you I have an atrocious sense of humor, and the likelihood of me making you laugh that hard on this flight is practically nil.
She finds this difficult to believe, a suspicion he confirms with a wink. She asks, Did you watch Loony Tunes when you were a kid?
When I was a kid? I may or may not have the collection in my Netflix queue.
Do you remember a character named Pete Puma?
Of course! He imitates the Mel Blanc character, One lump or two? He had that nasally—ohhh, I see what you’re getting at.
Mm-hmm.
That bad?
Maybe a bit worse.
That is truly amazing.
This time she successfully hides the snort. That’s one word for it.
In that case, I’m afraid I lied to you.
You did?
I did. Can you forgive me?
That depends on the lie.
I said I wouldn’t make you laugh. The truth is, I’m going to do everything in my power for the next two hours to cause you to fill this airplane with your melodious—
Don’t you dare!
I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands. Let’s say I’m out with the guys tonight, and I tell them about this girl I met on the flight today.
Uh-huh…
And let’s say I describe her, telling them she’s hands down the most beautiful woman I’ve ever sat next to. That’s over a half million frequent flier miles talking.
We’re in the same club.
Really? How many miles do you have?
Around that. But let’s get back to this amazing chick you’re telling your friends about.
Right! So I tell them she’s stunningly beautiful, whip smart—
You don’t know that. I could be a trust funder who jets around in Business Class.
Let’s say I’m trusting my gut on this one. I’m telling them all this great stuff, and then I say, here’s the kicker. She laughs like Pete Puma. Mary Lee feels her cheeks flush again. Now, if I end the story there, they’ll say, Swell story, Scott, and turn back to the ball game. If, however, I tell them it took two sky marshals to restrain us in handcuffs we were laughing so hard, You don’t understand, guys, she damn near shook the wings off the plane! Now THAT’S a story.
I have to admit, I like that your story involves handcuffs. But don’t you think it would be bad for our careers to be arrested by sky marshals?
I don’t know about you, but it happens I’m in the midst of a career transition. I have lots of free time.
It’s Mary Lee’s turn to take a long look at her seatmate. His expression doesn’t change. He gazes back at her like he’s been doing it his whole life. There’s a slip, only this time it feels like the chain connects. Just a little at first, but it it’s unmistakable. Interesting.
She looks out the window, and gasps. Scott! Did you realize we’d taken off?
I sort of half-noticed something happening out there a while ago, but I didn’t pay much attention.
For a while they talk about their respective hometowns of San Francisco and Seattle (the Lyft driver that morning, shaking his head the whole way, had picked Alaska Airlines). The attendants push the meal cart past and Scott asks the one in back, Excuse me, how long have we been in the air?
The attendant, who has a Village People mustache and bushy black eyebrows, says, About thirty minutes. Just under two more hours to Seattle.
I’ll be damned. The attendant raises half a caterpillar eyebrow but says nothing.
Scott looks back at Mary Lee. Did you realize we’d been talking that long?
She shakes her head. I’m the one who didn’t even realize we’d taken off.
For a long time, or a short time, they don’t speak. Then Mary Lee says, I’m going to order some food. Want anything?
Scott looks up from his book. Sure. They usually have a food box with some hummus and crackers. Something like that would be perfect.
You got it.
Thank you.
He reaches into his pocket but Mary Lee says, On me, flyboy.
How did you know that?
Know what?
You called me flyboy, but I don’t remember telling you I’m a pilot.
I don’t think you did. It just kind of came to me.
He raises an eyebrow and gives her the playful half-smile she’ll soon come to know and love. I can see I’m going to have to stay on my toes.
Mary Lee smiles and looks back at the menu screen. She starts. The menu is gone, and bright pink and yellow letters say, Let go of time, Mary Lee, and time lets go of you.
Scott, look at my screen.
He leans over and for the first time she catches his scent full in her nose and for a moment, as they say in the old movies, she feels the vapors. It’s item number four, the rather grandiosely-named Mediterranean Feast Platter. Thank you again.
So he doesn’t see it. Which makes her wonder all over again if she sees it, if she’s seen and heard any of it. She wonders what will be on that fax page when she gets home, whenever that may be. Has something profound been happening these last two months or is she hallucinating messages from the great beyond? Either possibility requires serious examination, but as she’s trying to analyze it he touches her arm. She feels another slip, the biggest one yet. Then something catches and she feels forward motion again.
Scott says, Sorry to startle you. You were staring off into space for a few minutes there, just wanted to make sure you were still with us.
A few minutes?
Mm-hmm.
How many?
Now Scott does a full-blown Pete Puma imitation. Oh, four or five.
What do you know about that, thinks Mary Lee. Let go of time, and time lets go of you.
She laughs again and the screen goes blank. The food menu pops back up. She orders the Mediterranean what have you for Scott, and picks a cheese plate for herself. She swipes her credit card and then turns off the screen.
She says, So tell me about this career change, Scott.
He smiles mysteriously. Well, like you I practiced law at a big firm for about ten years. Last year I made a completely irresponsible decision based on a thoroughly irrational experience, and decided to follow a dream. If that isn’t too much of a cliché.
The airplane is filled with the particular light that you see only in jetliners at altitude in the morning, a light containing the energy of life against all reason and odds at 35,000 feet and 50 degrees below. The plane’s red beacon flashes through a rear window and kaleidoscopes across the cabin.
It’s no more of a cliché than what I’m doing.
And what’s that?
Did you ever read Slaughterhouse Five?
Sure, Vonnegut. It’s been a while, maybe high school, but I remember.
Remember how Billy Pilgrim used to slip into and out of time?
He gives her the look she’ll come to describe as his You’ve Got My Attention look: He raises his eyebrows, furrows them together, then lifts his chin and squints in concentration. I remember.
I think I’ve started doing something kind of like that the last few weeks. I’m still technically a partner at Drucker, Feldman, at least as far as the firm’s concerned. As for myself, as of today…
Her voice trails off.
As of today…?
As of today, she thinks, I’m a seeker, wandering a world I think I might have to learn all over again. She says, As of today I guess you can call me Betty Pilgrim.
Betty Pilgrim? Not Patti Puma?
She laughs at that. Not her full-on Pete Puma laugh, but she gives him a snort or two as preview. Her laugh makes him laugh and it’s a solid minute before they stop giggling like little kids. Fortunately no sky marshals get involved.
Scott says, So that means you got fed up with the billable hour?
It means—I don’t know what it means just yet. It means my relationship to time has changed a lot. It means here I am, right now.
There’s a thump, and this time they both start. They look out the window. Red and white runway markers blur past, punctuated by blue taxiway lights. There’s a roar as the pilot activates the thrust reversers. They pull off the runway.
It’s happening a lot, thinks Mary Lee, this slipping in and out of time. Scott says, Before I lose you in the chaos, may I have your phone number? Better yet, if you don’t have plans this evening, would you join me for dinner? I know a little spot on Queen Anne Hill called the Kingfish Café. They have the best Cajun food on the West Coast, in this food snob’s humble opinion.
That’s a bold statement.
It is indeed. I’d love a chance to back it up.
I do like Cajun food.
And since you’re the literary type, you’ll appreciate that the owners are distant relations of Langston Hughes.
The engines sigh to a stop, their work done. Mary Lee says, Sold.
V
Scott parked a block from the restaurant, and they strolled through the Seattle evening holding hands. It wasn’t until he held the door open and she let go of his hand to step inside that she realized she was holding it in the first place.
VI
They’ll remember every detail of their first date and their first night together for the rest of their lives.
Even fifty years later (a half-century, for what it’s worth) when they celebrate their anniversary with close to a hundred family members and friends, they’ll say it seems like it happened yesterday.