August 24, 1995

The shopping cart dug into Martha's back. Fluorescent lights stung her swollen eyes. Exhaust wafting through sliding doors sickened her empty stomach. Pointless shoppers blurred past in search of plastic.

Her walkie-talkie crackled and said, "Martha?"

She looked down at it, clipped on her pant waist. She would have to answer it – or not... Her supervisor would call her again, and again, and again. Eventually, he would engage her face to face. Eventually, he would fire her and demand she leave. Would he physically try to remove her? No, even without questions of proper procedure and legality, he was too gutless. Would he ask other employees to remove her? Call the police? What would happen if she just didn't move?

It crackled again. "Miss Beckett, helllloooo?"

She held her fantasy of inert resistance a moment longer, then gave in and unclipped the walkie-talkie. "Yes?"

"You understand we're paying you to work, right?"

"Yes."

"Do I need to explain the responsibilities of a 'greeter' to you?"

"No."

"You see, a 'greeter's' job is to greet the guests as they enter. I know I don't have a fancy college degree but-"

She turned to face Raymond, standing fifty feet away at the checkout stands. She gave him a sarcastic smile and thumbs up, then hollered, "Got it!"

He glared, unamused. He was a stout man in his mid-twenties with a thin mustache and goatee. On her first day, Martha had made the mistake of telling him she had a boyfriend who was leaving for college – the same college she'd be attending in a year. The power he presumed from rank and age had vanished. A lack of higher education made him feel inferior, which made him defensive, which made him an asshole – this according to Martha's definitive psychoanalysis.

Maintaining his glare, he raised his walkie-talkie. "Greeters are also responsible for carts discarded outside the entrance."

Martha didn't answer but turned to comply. She stepped past the security sensors and through the automatic doors. There were five, maybe six carts scattered around the entrance. She slowly made her way to the first. She felt ill – like she needed to rest, like she needed medicine, a doctor, a hospital, the operating table, like she was in mortal danger. It was psychosomatic and overblown, but the insight didn't make it any easier. The insight wouldn't make him stay.

She moved the first cart to the second and mustered enough force to push them into a locked position. Somehow, the moon landing flashed in her mind – astronauts bouncing effortlessly across the surface. Was she paying back the debt from their reprieve? The thought was so ridiculous it almost made her smile.

It was unfortunate – utter bullshit – that she had to work today, of all days. She panicked when the schedule was posted a week and a half prior. She was determined to call in sick or simply quit, but James talked her out of it. They would have the drive to the airport and the walk to his gate. But as she maneuvered the chain of three carts into four then five, she regretted the decision. It wasn't fair. Of course James would preach patience. His concept of time was defunct.

"Do you need me to send someone out to help you?" Raymond heckled through the walkie-talkie. "Are the carts too heavy for you?"

Martha didn't bother to answer as she pushed them through the sliding doors. She dropped her eyes and saw the security sensor's digital counter click from 348 to 349 then brought them back to steer the chain into place. Raymond eyed her from the checkout then turned and left to harass the back of the store.

She returned to her post, her back against the carts. A retired couple walked through the doors, holding hands and unaware of Martha. She walked up to the entrance and checked the counter. It read 351. She held her knee over the sensor and swung her foot back and forth, back and forth... The counter rose past 360, past 370... Then she dreamed of an anonymous and irate corporate executive berating Raymond's pitifully low sales for such high foot traffic. The dream was funny, but still not enough to make her smile. Then Raymond dropped to his knees and begged to keep his job. The sides of her mouth cracked.

Martha wiped her forehead as she sat on the bench in front of the store. She was in the shade, but shade meant something different in the midwest's summer than it did in California. Finally, her father's car pulled to the curb.

James stepped out of the passenger door. There, she met him and they embraced. She pressed the side of her head against his chest. His collarbone made her temple throb, but the pain was a drop in the ocean. He relaxed to release but she held him tighter. Again, she played the game – how long could they remain in this position? A minute? An hour? A month? Again, she gave in to the inevitable and they climbed into the back seat.

Her father turned from the front and said, "Hey, Marty." He added a condoling smile as if they were standing next to James' casket.

"Hey," she replied softly.

Martha sat in the middle seat with James at the window. He reached across and drew her seatbelt over her lap then fastened his own. Her father pulled off the curb.

"Should I put on some music?" he asked.

"Sure," James answered.

"Any requests?"

"Dealer's choice."

"Oh, well in that case, uh... Let me shuffle the deck and uh... Sorry, I've completely botched the metaphor." Steven tuned the dial to the oldies station and Aretha Franklin.

Martha rested her head on James' shoulder and clutched his hand. In the last few days, she'd come to realize how deeply in denial she'd spent the summer. This was going to be impossible.

There had been a day in late June when they hadn't seen each other. It wasn't that difficult to get through, but she felt considerable relief the next day when they reconnected. A second day would have been pushing it. And now he wasn't coming back until Thanksgiving. Three months! She imagined a printout of the full calendar year. She folded November to meet August. If time were sentient, could it show her mercy and bend, just this once?

Time remained linear. So too space as they sped down the highway toward the airport.

James tilted his head against hers. A commercial for Empire Carpet came on the radio and Steven found a different station. Martha looked down at the fresh scar across James' forearm and traced the length of it with her fingers. She felt him flinch from the touch, but he didn't stop her.

They reached the exit for O'Hare International Airport. Steven made his way to the short term parking and found a spot. They stepped out and retrieved James' luggage. He carried one of the suitcases and Steven the other. Martha held James' free hand as they left the parking structure.

They checked his bags and Martha felt anger along with her despair. She was angry with her despair, in fact; angry that she was wasting her fleeting moments with James on this miserable trek.

They stepped onto an escalator heading down. James said, "Did you get your class schedule yet?"

"Yeah." She could hardly imagine the coming school year. She recalled her first day at school after the move – feeling nervous, lost, and terrified. Then James spoke, and the rest...

"Mr Prince for physics?" he asked.

"Yeah."

They reached the bottom of the escalator and came to a long corridor that bridged the two concourses. There were a series of moving walkways down its middle. On the ceiling and parallel the walkways ran a series of undulating neon tubes cycling through a series of colors in a coordinated dance. It would have been beautiful to Martha, if life still held beauty.

As they stepped onto the first walkway, James continued, "He just finished his certification. You'll be in one of his first classes. He's really excited about getting kids excited about physics. You'll get to witness the slow death of his enthusiasm."

They stepped off the first walkway and trudged to the second. Somewhere in her brain, a voice begged her to stop, but her body was on autopilot, in lockstep with James, and then the second walkway had them.

"Anyway, keep an eye out for Feynman's Sum Over Histories," he continued. "I don't think Prince gets to it until second semester. Honestly, it has no business being part of the curriculum, but the poor guy has plans to revolutionize high school physics. Regardless, I think you'll find the topic interesting."

After the walkway, an escalator took them back up to the next concourse. Travelers and tag-alongs passed left and right. Gate 18 was directly in front of them. James' flight would board at Gate 7 so they took a left. They passed fast food stands and duty-free shops. Flight attendants took turns droning over the intercom. A little boy screamed and threw his stuffed animal to the ground. His mother scolded him and counted to three, but the tantrum was underway.

At Gate 9, Martha turned to her dad and said, "Do you mind if we, um..."

Steven understood. "Oh sure. Sure, of course." He stuck out his hand. "Well James..."

James released Martha and wrapped his arms around Steven. With James' back to her, Martha saw surprise on her father's face. James said something she couldn't make out.

"Yes," Steven answered. "Yes... Thank you... Yes... I agree... Yes, absolutely." The men disengaged and Steven added, "Good luck. I'm certain you're going to do amazingly."

James turned back to Martha. They left Steven and continued to the gate. A pair of attendants stood behind a desk and assisted a line of people. Above them, a sign read '7:40 – Oakland.' To their left, a third attendant stood in front of the entrance to the jet bridge and collected tickets from flyers ready to board. Once verified, the flyers walked through the entrance, leaving Chicago behind.

James kissed Martha and held her. "I'm going to miss you every single day."

"No, you're not," Martha said.

"Martha."

"What?"

He dropped his hands to her lower back. His eyes were dry. His manner was even. "You think this isn't a big deal to me, but it is. The only difference is that I have more practice missing you."

"The only difference?" Martha said as she sniffled away a tear.

"Okay, that's an oversimplification, but-"

"My dad's right. You're gonna do amazing things with brilliant professors and brilliant classmates and... and beautiful girls..."

"Seriously?"

"...and they'll think you're clever and you'll tell jokes and they'll laugh at your jokes."

"Would you just stop?"

"Am I wrong?"

"Yes, you're wrong. You're very wrong, Martha. I've left for college two hundred times – this will be the eighty-third time for Berkeley alone. My days of exploration passed long ago. I've seen all of it. Don't care about any of it. Just care about you." He took a moment to gently wipe the tears from her cheeks, smiled, then said, "I love you."

Martha's inhaled sharply. She hadn't expected that. James held her addled gaze patiently. From the moment he confided his condition and their history to her, it had been a given. He chose her. He waited for her. He loved her. But on that Tuesday in November, he wouldn't say it. He couldn't say it because she couldn't reciprocate. And then she felt it. As her eyes might well with tears when struck with sudden despair, her entire body welled with... with something for which she hadn't words. It seemed as if all words had left her – her English, her French, the chunk of Spanish she learned in California. What was her name? What was the name of the boy standing in front of her? Was she still standing? Then suddenly there was a singular clarity within the confusion – an undeniable truth. Suddenly, the words returned.

"I love you too," she said. A laugh escaped and she covered her mouth reflexively. James smiled and pursed his lips as if her nerves were adorable. She dropped her hand and leaned in. They kissed, in love.

James withdrew, looked up, and said, "That's me."

"What's you?" Martha asked.

"My flight – they just called its final boarding."

The swift return to reality was painfully jarring. But she held herself together, nodded and said, "Okay."

"You've virtually no reason to believe me, but this year will actually be good for you." He kissed and hugged her quickly. "And for us... Love you."

"Love you," Martha said.

He smiled at her a moment, then swung his backpack over his shoulder and left. Martha tracked him as he made his way through ticketing. Before he entered the jet bridge and disappeared from her, he turned and looked back. He held his hand to his chest and she mirrored the gesture. He turned and was gone.

Martha didn't move. Her eyes stayed on the exit. The terminal remained the same – its dimensions unchanged. People continued walking in her line of sight and the intercom's gibberish endured. Yet strangely, everything was different, like the sky of a solar eclipse.

Steven reached her side and put his arm around her. Together, they left the gate behind. They didn't speak and for that, she was grateful.

She retraced her steps as if in a dream – composed, but numb. They passed under the neon rainbow and up past the check-in, then outside and to the short term parking. They found the car and stepped inside.

After each door shut, Martha felt a change. Fully enclosed, the figurative became unnecessary and she began to weep.

"Oh Marty," Steven said. "Oh honey, I'm sorry." He reached across and patted her shoulder. She leaned to him and cried into his. "I know it hurts. I know," he consoled.

Her body constricted as if her organs were collapsing upon themselves. He was gone. "Is this," she said through sobs. "Is this... what it was like when... when Mom died?"

Steven retracted. It was slight – barely perceptible – but Martha felt it. She looked up. His face cast a mix of surprise and fear. His chin twitched and flattened and tears began to roll down his cheeks.

"Oh God," Martha said. "Oh my God. I'm sorry. That was stupid."

He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. His face contorted into an ugly grimace as he labored against a breakdown. Role reversed, she pulled him closer and patted his back to calm him.

His reaction was a surprise. It was a stupid comparison to make – a false equivalence Martha regretted. James wasn't dying. One year of school and then they'd have the rest of their lives. She'd been insensitive, but his reaction... She'd never seen anything like this from him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have-"

"No," he interrupted. He pulled back and wiped his cheeks. "No, you don't have to..." He forced a smile and sat back in his seat. Headlights flashed as a car passed behind them. Steven took a slow, deep breath then said, "You know, I... I'm just... so, so happy for you. You're a wonderful young woman and you deserve someone like James." He squeezed Martha's hand.

She squeezed back and they both looked out the front of the car. A family of five lumbered past toward the elevators. "When did we become such cry babies?" Martha asked.

Steven laughed. "James' fault, I'm sure."

"Yes, definitely James," Martha joked. "Horrible what he's done to us."

"Just horrible."

Martha sniffled the last of her tears. "Do you have tissue?"

"Oh sure. There's one in the back, here." He reached into the backseat and grabbed the box. "There's also one in the glove compartment. I brought a spare."

She flipped open the glove box. "You brought a spare?"

"I anticipated tears," he said.

Martha raised her eyebrows to him.

"Well..." He motioned across his own face. "Not this... No, my plan was to be your rock."

She smiled and lay her head on his shoulder and he held her hands in his. They stayed that way for another fifteen minutes or so, until they were ready to head back home.

Author's note:

Anybody else have a boyfriend/girlfriend leave for college?  Anybody do the leaving?  It's a pretty cruel joke for life to play on young adults.  (insert meme of Lucy pulling the football at the last second)

Like, totally 90's detail:  You read that correctly.  They walked him ALL THE WAY TO THE GATE (and uphill in the snow both ways get off my lawn).