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Gentle waves of snow huddle under the streetlamp outside as Irving bristles in the Ganz Parks and Rec Center. His hair is a bit wet from the shower, which in turn is a bit wet from his swim, and he knows it will catch a chill if he waits outside for the car. Here in the fluorescent glow of the community building he is surrounded on all sides by children’s crafts, sign-up sheets for adult kickball, rules and regulations for checking out sports equipment, the squeak of gym floors and the tang of chlorine and sweat. It’s comforting. The dignity of public services has always called to him. Irving has always felt happiest in institutions that mythologize themselves.
Out in the dark, a pair of twin headlights catch pinpricks of snow as they fall, and a boxy Volvo station wagon crackles its snow tires across the parking lot and into the turn-around.
(It still gives Irving a bit of a thrill, after all these years, to be picked up by the Volvo that’s been picking him up since he was first picked up all those decades ago.)
He grabs his gym bag, and is hit with a slap of cold as he walks across the crunch of rock salt to the car. Irv opens it, smothered with warmth from the heater, and falls into the familiarity of the passenger seat.
“Hey kid, what’s for dinner?”
Burt smiles, an answer always ready for the first question he always gets, “Stuffed poblano peppers.”
Airy classical strings accompany the blast of hot air from the vents. The Volvo is spotless, impeccably clean, a tiny snowglobe of the Duomo sifting its false snow with each bump of the road, wire grates in the back to keep Caravaggio and Vermeer from leaping into the front seat.
“Stuffed with couscous?” Irving asks. Burt nods.
“With a hint of that preserved lemon we picked up in Cádiz.” His lilt is particularly energized today. It rises and falls with the potholes.
It’s pitch black outside. Always is this time of year. But the Volvo is safe here, in their version of retirement.
“How was your swim?” Burt asks. Irving scrunches his face, shrugs.
“Something was off. My innie did something to his shoulders, they were a bit tight.”
Burt gives him a look.
“Apologies,” Irving adds, “I know we’re retired.”
Discretion had become foundational in their marriage. This version of retirement only works when they don’t talk about the employment that enables it.
Burt takes a moment, and gives a reserved shrug of his own. He holds out his hand.
“My innie procured two papercuts in one day,” he says, his halting cadence more solemn than the situation demands.
Irving takes his hand and kisses it. “Let’s not let it ruin our retirement, dear,”
Burt smiles, and suddenly brakes, his hand clutching Irving’s.
The Volvo comes to a stop in the middle of the road.
Lines of thick trees line either side, like walls in a labyrinth.
There’s nothing ahead.
“Burt?!”
The road is quiet with empty and snow.
“Burt!”
But Burt stares ahead. His hand grips Irving’s tight. It is clammy, and Irving’s fingertips run over the blue bandaid on his thumb. The only sound is the fan of the heaters and the background chatter of public radio.
Burt’s eyes don’t leave the road.
“Are you seeing it?” Irving whispers.
Burt nods.
Irving grips tight.
“You’re retired. It’s not there.”
Burt lets out a shaking breath. His eyes track the top of the windshield.
“It’s oozing down the glass.”
“It’s not there darling.”
Burt takes a moment to compose himself. Irving’s grip on his hand is tight. The two of them move their hands down to the gear shift, and Irving squeezes once before letting go so Burt can downshift.
The Volvo pulls ahead slowly.
“That’s second time this month,” Burt notes. Irving nods.
A car comes into view up ahead. It’s pulled to the side, next to a large bare tree. A thicket of plastic flowers and wreaths and teddies and cards cluster up against its trunk.
“Is there someone next to that tree?” Burt asks as they pass.
“Yes,” Irving answers. “Just some guy.”
Their hands instinctually find each other and grip tight. Burt relaxes, his shoulders finally easing.
Briefly, Irving imagines what their retirement would have been like if they hadn’t decided to sever.
(That true retirement would be decades off)
(They could never have afforded to retire the normal way)
(But this way? With steady income, four weeks PTO, and endless leisure time? What more could they ask for?)
“It’s been a bit since we’ve travelled, we’ve got another week of PTO before the year’s end. Where next on our vacation, darling?”
Irving hums as he thinks. “Pacoima. Labrador. Tumwater?”
“What on Earth is a Tumwater?”
Irving smiles and starts to answer, but pauses. He isn’t quite sure.
And the Volvo vanishes into the night.