Whenever I go out of town, I park in an independently-owned lot about 15 miles outside of the airport. The shuttles at said establishment help you with your bags, and pick you up and drop you off at your own car. As a young, pocket-sized lady, I’m thankful for this place.
Tonight, as I returned to Denver, I found myself the last passenger on the bus.
“You look tired,” said the driver, an older black gentleman. “Just plain tired. Where you comin’ from?”
“Washington, D.C.,” I said.
“Oh yeah? For fun?”
“Yeah. My person lives there,” I explained. “When you’ve only got 72 hours, you have to make the most of it.”
“Ah. You’re wore out from love,” he said, in an earnest, non-perverse tone. I mm-hmm’d in agreement. “Well, you can’t ask for anything better than that. Someday you’ll see. Someday you’ll just be plain wore out.”
It was a simple, rather obvious statement. But nonetheless as I steered the car home, the weight floating in my chest confirmed his point and my deep suspicion: it just doesn’t get better than this.