Sandy Miles drove Harry to the airport at 2 p.m. She would drop him off and head back to her apartment in a rainy London. She would peel off her sweater and untie her boots, sitting by the edge of an unmade bed. She’d make herself a cup of tea, read the paper that she didn’t have time for in the morning when someone dropped it at her door. She’d then turn her TV on and would fall asleep on her couch.
But now, at this very moment, Sandy was thinking about Harry. She didn’t want to part from him because she knew he wouldn’t return. He was going to America. No one returns from America. Harry certainly wouldn’t. Once he gets his feet on the American land, once he feels the dirt and stone beneath his feet, once he fills his lungs with the fresh air and feels the wind against his skin, once he tastes it all, he will want to stay. Forever. He’ll never want to go back to what was once life for him in some other land, in a foreign place, somewhere far. Sure, he’d miss London, his birthplace, his mother, his old habits and routines. But he’d still be too drawn to the new place, to the new life. Sandy knew Harry would never return to London where it rained everyday and he didn’t make enough to pay his bills or buy her expensive gifts. She just knew.
They parted. Harry kissed Sandy and she kissed him back. They hugged and Sandy wanted to ask him not to leave, to reconsider, to change his mind. She wanted Harry to tell her he loved her too much to leave. But Sandy Miles simply watched Harry disappear into the crowd and she drove back to her apartment in a rainy London. She peeled off her sweater and untied her boots, sitting by the edge of an unmade bed. She made herself a cup of tea, read the paper that she didn’t have time for in the morning when someone dropped it at her door. She then turned her TV on and fell asleep on the couch.