MY PHONE BUZZES AND IT’S MISSY saying, “I’m here, don’t you see me?” She’s there through the plate glass, right where I’ve been staring. I thought she was just some lady. She’s standing next to her maroon minivan waving at me.
She wouldn’t let me take a cab.
“Pampa isn’t a cab town,” she’d said. “Or don’t you remember?”
“A car service then,” I’d countered.
“Nobody does that out here. Let me greet you! You deserve a greeting. Also,” she added, “the bus station has gotten a little stabby. Junky. Probably safe in the daytime, but if somebody guts you it will really annoy me.”
She’s wrong—it’s not stabby here at all, not junky. Just empty, windblown charm. The same tiny town I remember.
At Missy’s van we hug, and she kisses my cheek.
