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Show 39 "No. You had to do that." "No; I didn't." "Yes; you probably did." "Well ..." Leah had the quilt open; it was bundled around her. She could feel the pinks and oranges somehow comforting her in the booth. She was there with Hunt, and he was caring; being soft again. "I'll be right there." The terminal door, closed behind the escaping hat-man, had locked, Leah's suitcase sat inside. Leah stared at it. It looked orphaned. It looked without love, belonging to no one, passive, waiting. Someone could steal it, take what they needed. Someone could throw it under a bus. It could end up in Vickery, Ohio; Trenton, New Jersey; Oreno, Maine -- where it would simply wait to be shuttled or taken somewhere else. Leah cried. She cried unrestrainedly for her suitcase. She wished yery hard that it would d£ something: glide over to the coffee machine, read a paperback magazine, knit. She turned her back. She couldn't watch it any more. She never wanted to see the suitcase again. Time and motion were love. Inert, pulseless -- it had nothing like affection. So Leah walked away and left it there, beside the chrome and fiberglass bank of chairs. When Hunt came, he hugged her in the emptiness of the lot. "Where's your suitcase?" |