The number of women on the oil fields was sparse. That’s partly what made going home to Nora so nice, so anticipatory. But the last time she undressed it was nothing special. No sparks, no moans, no groans during lovemaking. It’d been like that for a while. Granted I was gone—three thousand miles gone—for two straight weeks every month. But that should have made the time we did have together that much better, right? But now, imagining being there with her, lying in bed, all I could see was the stark white of the ceiling, the walls on all four sides of me. Then there was the painting above the bed, which was king sized, of three stallions—it was oil on canvas—and they were black and the background was red and they were running fast according to the angle of their manes. Nora would be laying there naked, on her side, with the royal blue sheets pulled up to her chin, revealing nothing, probably only pretending to be asleep as I crawled in to bed next to her. The TV would be on and the liberals on the news would be talking about the high costs of the war, how the national debt was rising as a result, and how nothing overseas was being accomplished with regard to political reconciliation. It all sounded too much like Vietnam and the conservatives weren’t even considered anymore. Then the anchorwoman—she was dark skinned with full lips painted red and shoulder length black hair—talked about the rising price of crude oil, and somehow this all became more captivating than the warm body in the bed. Of course, this is just how I imagine things to be. It just as well could have been the anchorman with pale skin and a narrow head talking about the white woman running for president. And then there would be a commercial about Dodge trucks and then one about frozen food, and Nora would be lying there, as far as I could tell, fast asleep. * * * The woman in seat 18A, aboard the Boeing 737, was sleeping, too. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders and she smelled like something foreign, something exotic. Was it lavender? Maybe sage. The hard plastic shade that covered the window was pulled down halfway and the sun was setting in a bright, blinding orange along the horizon. Then she stirred. Could she feel me looking at her? That would be somewhat humiliating, something she’d perceive as an infringement on her privacy, probably. But she didn’t open her eyes, which I imagined were hazel, so I must have been safe. A book by Hunter S. Thompson was lying open on her lap. Some kind of gonzo journalism. What the hell was that? She was a liberal, must have been. She had rings on all her fingers. Silver rings. Except on the finger that mattered most, which must have been a statement. Women liked to make statements these days. She opened her eyes. She picked up the book. She hadn’t really been sleeping, only resting. She glanced my way and smiled with the energy she had on reserve. She would think a person unintelligent who didn’t know the significance of her book. Or she would be kind. Regardless, there was no need to ask. She closed the book and laid her head back. * * * Nora would have pot roast and canned green beans and rolls from the freezer on the table at eight. Plates would be set in both spots and white cloth napkins would be folded in triangles beside them. The lights of the dining room would be turned down low and a bottle of red wine would be set at one end of the table, most likely mine. Her auburn hair would be loose and she’d have on a black v-neck sweater with jeans and a cotton brasserie and panties—nothing fancy—underneath. She’d have only one ring on her finger, which I’d given her 22 years before when we were still young. I don’t know how I knew this; I’m not much for detail, but after that many years of the same I suppose I just knew. She only ever poured the glasses a quarter of the way full, which I would never understand. It wasn’t even enough to make her relax, let alone me. Then she’d slice the pot roast with a carving knife paper thin and eat only half her portion, and the rolls—she wouldn’t even touch those. It was some new diet she was on, but the way I understood it she was supposed to eat more meat because of the protein it had, and she was usually one for following the rules, for following the authority on a matter. The young woman in seat 18A was different, I could tell. She possessed an authority of her own accord. Maybe I would talk to her when she woke.