A scroll hung in an illuminated
recess at one end of the room. The characters were bold, the brush
strokes fresh and immediate. Stringed music twanged of duty,
consequence, and the inevitable flow of time. The waitress, middle-aged
and respectful, brought him dinner with a minimum of talk. Oliver ate
slowly, feeling no need for conversation. He _was_ conversing, he
realized, with each move of his chopsticks, each glance around the room.
The cab ride and the hotel seemed loud in comparison. He turned the TV
on and turned it off. It was better to lie in bed and revisit the
garden. Tomorrow was coming. Another long flight.
In the morning, Oliver's spirits rose as the jet cleared the coast,
high above the ocean. "Here we go," he said to the slim woman seated
next to him. She smiled and resumed reading what appeared to be a
textbook. He had a glass of Chardonnay with lunch, but he was too wide
awake to sleep afterwards. The plane passed above slabs of cloud and
intermittent vistas of empty ocean. Once, a jet slid by below them,
several miles away, flying in the opposite direction.
Hours later, as they descended toward the islands, a general excitement
spread through the plane and the student became talkative.
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