Lunch proceeded as meals often did—snide comments about the ovine masses over dry, overly spiced food. The walk back to the car, the outrageously priced hybrid of course, was where things got interesting.
“Honesly, Charles, I don’t know where you are sometimes.”
“Somewhere else,” came immediately to mind, but he said, “Just thinking.”
“About what?” The question was sharp, said quickly as though it were leaving a bitter taste on its way out. You’d think she’d be used to bitter tastes by now.
“Somewhere else,” reared up again, but he said, “Things have been busy at work.” As usual, she launched into a diatribe about his soul-crushing employ at a paragon of capitalistic excess that lasted the remaining three blocks to the car.
As if out of gas, she eked out at the end, “…I mean really, when you look at it all, where do you really want to be?”
Eyes already looking through his erstwhile wife, Charles answered quite out loud, “Somewhere else. Not here. Not with you. Heck, not even me really.”