He snaps open the Money section of USA Today for emphasis, shuffles the pages a bit, just to let the girls know he’s reading, to take it a little easy with the Hello Kitty chatter. Doesn’t even glance up at the wife. The food was a touch cold on delivery, but he felt he needed to stop for the paper after that. The “interlude.” Something to read, a helpful moat between him and the family. It had taken a minute to find them, the girls having got it into their collective heads to snag a corner table instead of the perfectly good one he’d selected. Doesn’t matter. Whatever keeps them quiet. He scans the stocks one last time—doesn’t own any but enjoys seeing who’s losing out—then folds the paper once, and over again. In the distance, a flash of red. He looks up, cautiously now; wives have radar. And there she is, the condiment gal. Sixty feet away. A whole booth to herself, busiest airport in the world, and she scores a booth. Staring straight at him. Another one of those looks, but with a twist this time. The mouth a bit turned down, the eyes a touch narrower. There could be disgust there; he’s not absolutely sure. It’s hard at twenty yards to read disgust with certainty. Might be the burger not agreeing with her, but probably not. She even shakes her head a touch when one of the girls erupts on his side, up from under the table and suddenly at his throat, pawing him, tugging on his ear. He silently tries to explain, plead his case, prove that he’s different. That he’d give it all up for her, if only. If only. He looks over again, but she has vanished. Left her tray and faded into the lunch crowd. Maybe never even really existed. He wonders about this as he toys with his girl’s braids. Adjusts her tiny sweater. Brushes crumbs from her flushed, tired cheeks.

“You have beautiful children,” comes the voice, not three feet away. He hadn’t planned on this one. The surprise attack. Out of the jungle at dawn. The girls titter and make faces, his spouse wipes ketchup from her chin and grins up foolishly, he buries a “Thank you” into his Sprite. He considers using the chuckle a fourth time but immediately backs away from the idea.

“You must be so proud,” she says, holding this a touch too long. Nearly an inappropriate amount of time, he feels, with no clear response from their side of the table. Finally, she moves off, her loafers making a soulful squeak as she treads along the rubberized Spanish-tile floor. A carry-on rattling behind her. A blast of white noise from the courtesy phone covering her tracks.

“That was sweet,” says the wife, breaking the latest détente. One of her hopeful looks.