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Show 199 liked arriving at names for moments. Moments and work. Classical Eggs! He shaped the phrase again - no frills, no sauce, no foreign objects folded in, no hidden agenda. Eggs! Classical! He packed his bag, packed family fishing gear and drove to the airport. Crossing from the Long Term Parking to the terminal, Hunt saw an artist from his past, a woman, extraordinary talent he had thought, driving a cab. She didn't see him and he made no gesture toward greeting. Reunion. Did she paint still? Hunt wondered. Did she still see the world with such fragile line and extraordinary color? Or was that done? Was that finished? And if she had glimpsed him, as he had her, would she have seen him as having become a different person? Was it, for everybody, a Then : . . and Now? This . . . and That? Or . . .? Airports were such sad and wonderful places! Perhaps, Hunt thought, it was because he lived in such a transient nation. But people seemed more reverent toward one another here, more careful. Across, lunching in the restaurant, a couple seemed so remarkably tender, as though this were the lone moment in their lives they'd been allowed to share. Time had value. Here. It had sanctity in a crazy way. Everywhere Hunt glanced, posed scenes, seeming first or final moments in related lives. Tender. Beginnings. Endings Sweet solemn intersections of lives. Hunt glanced at his paper. A group calling itself Global Accord and Sacrifice had kidnapped the President of the United Nations Security Council and were holding him until ten demands were met. Two booths away, Hunt could see an older man and woman hugging |