Writing Exercise 4--Kate Hove

She stood in solitude at the bottom of the stairs watching people come down with the small pieces of luggage they had carried with them on the plane. She would see their feet first and could tell immediately whether the person was her husband or someone else. Patent leather loafers. No. Sneakers. No. Those stylish European shoes—tan with stripes. No. There was an elderly man who carried a small suitcase with a floral pattern, colored rose and sage and beige, presumably for his wife who was walking steps behind him. They looked tired and Nora knew it had been a long flight and that her husband would be worn. He loathed flying but with his new job was able to tolerate it because of the money he earned and the benefits he received. She fluffed her hair and rubbed her lips together to be sure the lipstick was evenly applied. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and readjusted the pocketbook hanging from her shoulder. The elderly man with his wife’s suitcase was approaching her, warily. He had something in his hand. Probably his boarding pass. Why was he looking at her that way? She shifted her gaze back to the staircase. She hoped he liked her new hairdo. Curls, with streaks of red. That was her natural color—red, but she’d since dyed it blond—she was trying to look young. “You wouldn’t happen to be Nora, Harley Pritchett’s wife?” The man was talking to her; she realized this, but remained intent on her gaze. A moment later she looked quizzically at the man. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. He was handing it to Nora. “He asked that I give this to you. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” His wife had caught up to him and was smiling sympathetically. Then they walked away, toward the baggage claim, toward the parking lot, on their way home.