Steve was waiting in baggage claim at SFO, wondering if he shouldn’t have taken a suitcase at all. He would have saved twenty dollars and not had to wait with the pushy, impatient crowds. He was sure that he had clothes still in the closet at the house on Russian Hill, his abode for so many years before the separation and his move back to Cleveland.
He was nervous to see her. They had a lot to discuss. He tried to calm himself by thinking of the beauty of the Golden Gate Bridge and the joy of the cable cars, the ones he used to love listening to, as they rolled down the tracks in the distance, as he lay in bed with her at night.
She entered the terminal, walking through he revolving door. Steve’s head was spinning like the door. She had changed her hair… to red! While part of him was thrilled to see her, the other part was annoyed.
He thought to himself, “Red hair? Do we really need more excitement in our lives? Red is the color of fire and danger and communist governments.”
They kissed. On the cheeks.
“How do you like the hair?” she asked.
There was trouble brewing already. If Steve answered honestly, there was trouble with her. If Steve said he loved it, there was trouble within his soul for being dishonest.