Selected Stories

“Yalis” - Excerpt

Faultline, Spring 2013

It was late. By the time they recovered their luggage from the carousel and made the Sisyphean journey through customs only to be tossed out into the fluorescent greeting hall and confronted by a moving wall of drivers waving little white placards that spelled out unreadable names of ownership, they were at the softened mental state normally associated with the last levels of advanced interrogation technique. Indeed the long flight could be construed as a kind of self-torture. After a minute, Sheila realized that the blurred names had more to do with her lack of reading glasses than malice on the part of the drivers so she dug in her purse and pinched on the lenses, immediately rejoicing in the discovery of their name on one sign, with its attendant promise of airport salvation. It was held by a nonchalant driver who was using his other hand to bring his cigarette to his lips. He did not seem greatly concerned if they found each other or not. Nonetheless, the couple felt a sleep-deprived sense of gratitude and homecoming, and smiled big, American, pearly smiles at the slight man, who merely shrugged at their discovery of him. He did not offer to help Sheila with her bags.