Day 15: Flyover

This feels like a chapter out of a book.  I don't know what book.

Flyover

He woke up sweating. Even the sheet was too heavy. The clock read 2:22 AM. The city outside the windows purred, distant but audible.

After a few minutes of feeling the tingle of exhaustion ebb and flow across his face, he slid off the bed, taking care not to wake his wife beside him. He walked out into the living room, skirted the coffee table, and then continued outside.

The bruise on his shin throbbed a bit as his bare feet struck the concrete of the balcony floor.

The orange and blue grid of the street lamps stretched out beneath him from below his feet to the shore. The rain had passed and he could see the causeway to the Markova spaceport outlined in green dashes.

The rain had passed but the heat had not. Inside the house it was still muggy. On the balcony, a gentle breeze brought the smell of jasmine and gardenias mixed with car exhaust and restaurant dumpsters.

He sat. He could feel the raindrops soak into his shorts.  The slick surface of the chair stuck to his skin. He wished he'd pulled on some pants.

He breathed, deeper. He felt the fatigue in the soreness of his chest and the faint tingling of his face. He listened to the city's purr.

He heard a rumble behind him. Distant at first, it slowly grew. As it grew, he began to hear other notes: the scream of the chase jets, the returning echo from the mountains across the bay.

A military transport, then. With escort. The first of the garrison they had been promised.

Soon Markova would change. Soldiers. More mining equipment. An influx of guest workers. Chaos, noise, pollution. Progress.

He hated it. The city was beautiful as it was. At twenty thousand people, it was more of a town. But Markova boasted a symphony; a couple of amateur theater companies; a small college. And a modest tax base provided by the modest mining operation on the other side of this ridge, ten kilometers inland.

What to do? The mainline precious metals had been exhausted, and deeper in, a vein of transuranic ore discovered. This ore was more dangerous to extract, and more valuable. Thus the guest workers. Thus the military.

Oh well. Not much to do about it.

The bruise on his shin refused to go away. It had been nearly a month. Going to see the doctor tomorrow. Probably nothing.

The military transport rumbled overhead and out over the bay. He watched it, absently rubbing the arm of the chair with his finger tips. It slid closer and closer to the water, at last lining up with the jetty runway. The escort craft peeled away from the transport and turned south.

The transport landed.

He waited for the noise to subside.

He sat a few minutes more, trying to memorize the quiet purr of the city.

The breeze shifted. Cooler, now. In fact he felt cold.

Back through the living room. Measured steps around the coffee table. Into the warm embrace of the bedroom.

Before he got back into bed, he stood and watched her. In the dimness he could not see much, but he remembered. Brown hair streaked with gray, pulled back. Tiny ears, close to the sides of her head. Thin nose. Small creases at the corner of her mouth. Arms and legs tucked in front of her. One foot always slightly pointed, usually the one on top. She slept on her side, facing away from him.

He got into bed, under the sheets. Got close to her, and felt her sides expanding and contracting, ever so slightly, as she breathed. He put his arm around her, and without waking she moved back into him. Still a bit cold. He pulled the comforter up over the sheet.

He thought about the city and how it soon would change.

He thought about the bruise, and the doctor tomorrow.

He felt her warmth against him.

He slept.

(c) 2011 Michael Bernstein