He switched on the green-glass lamp that sat on the left side of his desk. The wooden veneer was nearly covered by the blotter, the in and out baskets, and the Grecian marble pen-and-pencil holder, with matching paperweight, which Margaret had given to him as an anniversary gift some ten or twelve years before. His face was reflected on a framed, close-up photo he had taken of Margaret on their recent trip to Key West. She was, as her friends might have said, a handsome woman; one who had mellowed rather than age;, a woman whose face continued to emit something of the girlish quality that had originally attracted Eugene to her. At the instant the Nikon’s shutter had opened, her hair had been sculpted by the Gulf wind into a soft-edged swirl the color of brown sugar, and the sun, dropping behind her, had blushed the helices of her ears a tropical red.

The glow from the lamp shade painted an unhealthy green across the upper half of Eugene’s face. He wrapped the framed photograph of his wife within several sheets of typing paper, taped them closed, and laid the package carefully in his briefcase.

He inspected the contents of the files and folders he had transferred from his desk to the case; sales reports and order sheets, lengthy notes on three-by-five index cards for a presentation he would make to the regional managers of the company, and a thick glossy catalog with descriptions and photos of American Hardware’s new products for the coming year. This Eugene had received at home, directly from the national office; he had spent every evening for the last week memorizing the descriptions, dimensions, and price breaks.

Preparations for a business trip, and there had been many in his career, had a curious effect on Eugene. He felt himself, by small degrees, peeling away from his home, and from Margaret. Each item he placed into his briefcase seemed to release a clasp. He felt something of an airy lightness in his chest; he would often become clumsy, in a way that made him feel he was a stranger in his own body. He wondered if this was a sensation shared by other men who had, at some time in the past, gathered their weapons and readied for a march into the unknown. He often had trouble sleeping for a few nights before a departure; on these nights, he would stealthily rise from their bed and spend the early morning hours in the den, trying to work, but succeeding only in putting his papers in neat stacks on the desk. In some small way, he thought, every trip carried with it the likelihood that the person who returned would be someone different than the person who had left.

He tucked his traveler's checks into the zippered pouch in the lid of the briefcase. The latches produced a familiar and satisfying click as he thumbed them shut. The surface of the leather was a deep chocolate color, and carried scars that had been inflicted throughout his years on the road. Only the deepest ones remained; the others he had carefully rubbed to invisibility with saddle soap and Kiwi.