Tidal Flats. Cynthia Newberry Martin
woman looked as if she were covered in a shroud, as if she were dead. I had to sit down. I knew she was alive underneath.”
13
Rounds of cool air from the open French doors pelted her body. No Ethan in the other chair. She had fallen asleep and stood too fast. In her socked feet, she slid down the hallway, bumping over the threshold to their bedroom, grabbing the doorframe to stop herself. Ethan, in his black sweater, with his back to her and black bags at his feet, was packing. Cameras marked with jagged red tape, lenses, cables, and countless other black pieces, all at right angles covering their old quilt. Sleeping during the day made her woozy, and she put her hands to her forehead.
He looked up. “You okay?”
Their feet had been together, on the ottoman between them. “You were gone.”
“Not gone. Packing.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up? I always watch you pack.”
“Because you always watch me pack.”
But she needed to watch him place things now in this room into those bags that would be with him over there. She perched on the arm of the easy chair.
“Why is there red tape on your cameras?”
“This last trip I picked up the wrong one—first time. Do you have any books for me to take to Setara?”
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