A Pilot's Wife

Dreaming

It was possible she was crying. Later, she would not be able to say when it had started. The rain soaked her hair, glued it to her head. It rand down her neck, her back, the front of her blouse. She was too exhausted to pull her collar up or to tighten her coat around herself. She had suddenly realized she hadn't taken her umbrella with her, she'd reached for it, but she hadn't taken it with her. Passerby raised their umbrellas, glanced at her and then at each other. She breathed through her open mouth.

She had no destination, no idea where she was walking. Coherent thoughts refused to from or to take shape. She remembered the name of her hotel, but she did not want to go there, did not want to be inside with other people. Did not want to be alone in a room.

She stepped off the cut and, by habit, looked the wrong way. A taxi squealed. Olivia stood still, expecting the driver to lean out the window and yell at her. Instead, he waited patiently for her to cross the road. She hadn't been used to the UK driving on the opposite side of the road.

She knew that she wasn't well and grew nervous, afraid that she might inadvertently walk into a construction hole, might step off the curb again, might be hit by a red bus. A headache claimed her, and she slipped into a telephone booth to put herself momentarily into a safe box. She wondered if she had any advil on her.

A man stood impatiently outside the phone box, then tapped on the glass. He needed to use the phone, he mouthed. She walked out into the rain again and walked along the busy street that seemed as if it might on on for ever. Heads bent against the rain, and people passed her. She thought about finding a department store, buying an umbrella, possibly a rain coat.

At the corner, she saw two men in overcoats laughing. They held black umbrellas and brown leather briefcases. They went inside the doorway. There was a glow behind the door, frosted glass, the sound of communal laughter, it was dark already, night now, and it might be safer to go inside.

Inside the pub, the scent of wet wool rose to her nostrils. She liked the warmth of the interior space. The glasses of the man just in front of her steamed, and he laughed with him companion. A man behind the bar handed her a towel. Someone else had used it before her, it was damp and limp and smelled of aftershave. She toweled her hair as she would do after a shower, and she saw that men were staring at her. They have pints of ale in front of them, which made her thirsty. The men parted slowly, and gave her a stool.

When the bartender came back, he took the towel, and she pointed to a tap. The ale was bronze colored when it came. Light sparkled from polished surfaces, and men had cigarettes. She was thirsty and drank the ale like water. She glanced down, saw that her blouse was nearly transparent with the soaking and drew her coat around her for modesty. The bartender turned in her direction and raised an eyebrow, she nodded in answer and he gave her another glass of ale.

She needed to use the bathroom, but she didn't want to give up her stool. She thought she should order a third glass of beer just in case she lost her place and wouldn't be able to get another. The bartender ignored her raised hand, but women across the bar noticed. They spoke to each other as they stared at her. The bartender, acknowledging her finally seemed slightly less friendly than he had been before. When he finally asked her if she'd like a third drink, she shook her head and stood up, catching her coat on the stool. She lifted the wool of the vinyl seat, and she tried to walk with a steady gait, moving through the crowd of men and women standing with their drinks.

She followed a sign for toilets and it seemed unnecessarily direct. It was relief just to be alone in the stall. Her stomach threatened momentarily to revolt, but she held her ground, withstood the queasiness. She washed her hands in a grimy sink and looked in the mirror. The woman reflected there could not be her, she decided. The hair was too dark, too flat against the head. Half moons of mascara lay beneath her eyes, a ghoulish makeup. The eyes themselves were pink rimmed, the eyeballs veined. The lips were bloodless, though the face flushed. A homeless woman, she thought.