a small warmth

The smell of breakfast toast lingered in the kitchen. Outside, the breeze rustles the bushes’ silver and pale green leaves in the spring’s brisk morning.

“Where have you been?” Aretha asked, wearing her old beach cover gown.

“Driving around,” said Malcolm, as he pulled the car keys out of his denim pocket and dropped them into the dish by the stove. He brushed his dark blue polo shirt and tan corduroys.

“Nearby? Driving just around? Not like you.”

“Just around,” he replied.

“Anywhere in particular?”

“No. Getting to know the land, so to speak,” the Brit said, as he sat at the kitchen table and read the morning newspaper.

“Wandering perhaps near the airport?”

“Could have, could have. Between here and there, right?” He smiled, but the tension around his eyes told a different story. Malcolm looked away from Aretha involuntarily.

“I found the Denver International Airport parking ticket in your car yesterday.”

“Oh? Clumsy of me,” he said, starting to fidget with his I-Phone. “Ticket?”

“In fact several.” Her voice louder with each word.

“Oh?” Now, he’s tracing the I-Phone buttons with his index finger.

“I could smell the Italian cigars that you enjoy.” Her throat blushed with anger.

“Not surprising. Well…” he stuttered, his finger running on the tabletop’s grey tiles.

Holding her throat, Aretha said, “Is there anything you want to talk about?” Her heart labors as she examined his eyes.

Malcolm stared at the small lake, to the north of their large property, but only sees Aretha’s ghost in the window, staring at him. “I love being here Aretha. I really do. I love you, madly! More than a Brit is capable of saying.” Flustered, he threw his hands up in the air.

“But,” said Aretha, “you need something don’t you? Something more than just you and me.” Her voice dropped lower.

“Yes.” With his admission, she heard the sound of his disappointment.

“What I mean is… I miss me home. The smell of the jet fuel somehow helps. Weird? I try to play with a straight back. But now…”

“Did you ever want to jump on the plane and go back?”

“I’ve talked to the BA flight staff. Hearing their voices help make the connection for me. Once, they let me on the plane, before boarding. ‘Special, VIP,’ they said to the TSA. What a laugh they are!” said Mal, as he slapped his leg and chortled.

The laugh was genuine, something she hadn’t heard in a while.