The Paving of America

The light coming through the pines was orange. Chris thought it was a five o'clock light, even though it was summer now; now it was eight o'clock. But six months ago it would have been a five o'clock light, bringing on the sharp evening of January. Despite the summer softness of the air it might as well have been five o'clock. Time to come home, time for supper. Time to begin the gathering-in.

But it was July and the evening kept stretching, like Eliot's patient on a table. The trees seemed in a constant exhale, breathing skin-temperature air at her as the hovercar whooshed past. She turned her head and her hair dragged over her face, painting over the view: hundreds of dandelions bobbing back up, righting themselves after the brushing thrum of the passing car bowed them under. The whip of air under the car seemed wild, but once it passed, everything unfolded and sat back up as if untouched. She lay down in the seat, her head on the armrest. The car followed the relays buried beneath the dandelions. The sun followed the car. Here and there its warm fingers touched a chunk of old asphalt, some crumbling piece of the empire that had been pulled low by the flowers. They were just chunks. They were grown upon. They fit in.

She was thinking about Jeremy. Jeremy in Portland, Jeremy at a business meeting, Jeremy making strained conversation over drinks with his boss. Jeremy Jeremy. So far away. When he came back he'd be tired. He'd want to wait until later. He'd want it to go on as it was. He'd want supper and a drink. He'd want to be alone. Chris wanted things badly to work; she knew it. She knew it'd go on until she felt worse, and worse, and then. But she couldn't leave him this summer. Not while she was still thinking about him every day. Not when all she really wanted was to have him in the seat next to her, her feet in his lap. He'd sat here only once with her, on an evening like this, but it had been enough.

She let herself fall asleep thinking about that. The car whooshed on, its fans serious, quiet. The sunlight began to touch only the tops of trees. The car was taking her home to her quiet apartment. It was the gathering-in. The patient on the table was yawning and sitting back up. The sun that warmed Portland in the West was setting on New England. For twenty miles behind her the dandelions bobbed up and stood, golden to the last.