A radio belonging to one of my half-dozen office partners issued forth the final notes of one of Queen’s better whines, before moving to the chatter of the DJ. As I pulled out the readings, Fleetwood Mac again began to sing. I stared at the pile of creased, stained photocopies. I picked up a stapled stack of sheets. My eyes floated lightly over the quarter-memorized words on them.I spent the morning thus reading. The words in the articles entered into a dialogue with ideas half-formed in the back corner of my mind. A trance fell deep over me through lunch and into the early afternoon as, occasionally, I quietly sang a line or two of something mellow on the radio to myself. Looking at the clock, I broke and grabbed a tattered notebook and a folder into which I crammed a few of the photocopies that I felt were of some importance.One of my office partners looked up from the map he was trying to explain to a recovering high-school genius and asked, “taking off?”His student shifted in her. She heard the murmur of conversation and surprisingly heard her name, so she went out of the room and on to the landing. Looking over the banister rail and down the stairs she couldn’t believe her eyes. This couldn’t be happening, he should still be in Kenya, but there standing in the hallway looking up at her, his face dark from the desert sun was Rob, in civilian clothes he was holding a suitcase in his hands. He came up the stairs to her quickly and as she led him along the landing and into the living room, he dropped the case and took off his topcoat and jacket. Unable to take her eyes off him, she backed into the living room and as he walked into the room, he said ‘Who isn’t going to make it home?’ With tears of happiness running down her face, she was in his arms kissing him, being held close to him, his smile wide and happy. His face was tanned, almost blackened by the sun, and thinner than she had ever seen, his body thinner too. Somehow through the maze of her emotions she.
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