I just drove Stef to the airport in Windsor Locks. This is a very unusual time-of-day for me to be out and about.
There was patchy fog as we left the house and headed north on I-91. Patchy fog is a concept I say more than I see. It’s neat to watch it slosh inside the valleys–trapped there by its own density. Even driving in the clear I saw little wisps briefly rise and get high enough to block the rising Sun before its warmth caused them to evaporate.
Shadows are on the opposite side of everything this time of day. Even the main drag on my way home–a road I’ve driven nearly 20 years–looked starkly different because of the lighting.
Good conversation with Stef in the car. That’s a treat. It made waking up worthwhile. There’s no way for her to understand that yet.
I pulled her bag from the trunk as we watched a woman in red stiletto heels and tight leggings walk into the terminal. It didn’t look right at 7:10 AM. “Those are walk of shame shoes,” I said, casting a totally unfounded moral judgment on this perfect stranger. You can do that with strangers, right?
Now, back to sleep.
I can never understand why people wear the most uncomfortable clothes to fly.
Should I clarify? Walk of shame implies these were worn the previous evening.