She’s pretty. A little heavy, maybe, but pretty. She’s sitting there, all tired and the boy crawling on her and the baby whimpering, and she’s waving to me. Wants me to heat up some formula for her or something. So, I gather myself, I do, I gather myself up and go over and turn off her little blinking light overhead and I say, “Hi, can I help you?” She fires off a series of instructions in response, then sends me away with a wave of her maternal hand. Looking up only long enough to read my name. “Robin.” I see her saying it to herself, mouthing it as she lets the baby squeeze her finger. “Robin.”

When I come back to her with the bottle, I casually ask where they’re headed and she tosses off a quick answer, with a voice deeper than I expect, saying she and the kids are using some frequent-flier miles to go to the UK. Surprise “Daddy” for his birthday. And as she smiles thinly at me, the dismissive smile of someone who no longer requires my service, I envision her at Heathrow struggling through customs with the children and her bags and fighting for a cab and winding through the serpentine streets of Mayfair and looking for his address and the surprise on both their faces when she is greeted at the door by him wearing my robe. Incense in the air. Two of my pressed uniforms still hanging in the bathroom archway.

At that moment, the sun breaks through some clouds and pours in a nearby window, engulfing her. Backlit now, the years drop away from her face. I think of this woman from another time, that captive image in her husband’s wallet—young and hopeful and dressed for the beach—but the light soon fades and as I return to pouring drinks and handing out menus, I too smile thinly, knowing that life will never be the same for her again.

Soft Target

This was going to be one of those days; he could feel it. Not an ordinary one, oh no, this was one of those that crept up on him—starting at around 10:30 or so—and made a bit of a fuss for the rest of the morning-slash-afternoon. This was going to be just like that.