The train pulls into St. Paul Union Station. My fellow passengers disembark and hustle off to wherever they are going. The last passenger off the train is a woman in a brown coat who detrains awkwardly with an oversized case and takes a desultory, gallows walk through the depot. I ponder what her story might be, as I scan the dissipating crowd for Carl. But he is not there. The train moves on down the tracks, picking up momentum as it chugs toward Chicago.

My phone buzzes — a text from Carl saying he’s running late. “Big snarl on 94. There’s a game at Vikings Stadium and something happening at the Armory.”

“Please don’t text and drive, Carl.”

“It’s hands-free, baby. The miracle of Siri.”

We have always been like this. I tell him to use caution and he tells me that’s nonsense. Our relationship is oblique in some ways, built on negotiations and patience. We don’t talk about settling down, as we haven’t figured out how to meet in the middle.

I walk through the station, restless, wondering if I’m homesick or just tired of traveling. Outside, listless snow flurries drift down from a marshmallow sky.

At last, Carl pulls up at the curb in our green Fiesta. He pops the trunk from inside. I lift my luggage in and slam down the hatch, irritation creeping over me like slime. I try to shake it off. I’ve been away for a week. Doesn’t distance make the heart grow fonder?

“It’s always busy on 94,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat. “So you give yourself extra time.”

“You’re right, Teri. I’m sorry. How was Fargo?”

“It was fine. The client is happy. They placed a big order, so my boss is over the moon.”

My mouth says these words, but my mind thinks about how Fargo was a complete escape. A world away.

And there was a man.

Each night I went to the same restaurant for a quiet dinner and a glass of wine. And each night he was there too — also on business from the Twin Cities. Eventually, we sat together, talked, had a second glass of wine. Then another. He spoke of his unhappy marriage. 

“That’s great, babe,” Carl says. “I did the grocery shopping.”

My mind travels back to the old game of telephone that my sisters and I played as children. The sounds came through, but the sensibility was lost. Cushion became pushing. Lamp became damp. And so sensible descriptions of everyday household items devolved into a string of ridiculous non sequiturs. 

The freeway is lined with tired snow, shoved aside by plows and sullied by vehicle exhaust and road grit. This is the worst thing about Minnesota winters — the ugly aftermath of the storms. 

Carl glances at me sideways. “Penny for your thoughts?”

I laugh without mirth as we pass the basilica with its grand, imposing dome. “That’s about what they’re worth right now. One rusted red cent. I’m so tired.”

And yet what I’m really thinking about is the warmth of Samuel’s hands. How we talked each night until the restaurant staff took away our silverware, napkins and glasses, and we finally paid up and parted ways.

“Hey,” Carl says. “I have a surprise for you at home.”

“Oh?”

My emotions tumble. I know what he’s doing — trying to stitch us together again — because whenever we’re apart, the strands that connect us twist and fray. He knows that a surprise is my one weakness. But is this what I want? To meld back into life with Carl? I don’t know. I can’t think. Can’t speak.

Run from this, says my silent thought. Run away.

Last night in Fargo, at our final dinner together, I studied Samuel’s face glowing by candlelight. What I saw there was pure yearning. For me. My heart shivered, not knowing how to say goodbye.

My phone buzzes and I glance down. It is him. “Can I see you?”

Maybe? Maybe. I silence my phone without responding. The feel of Samuel’s touch is fading away like the shadows of a dream.

At home, the driveway is cleared of snow, the sidewalk swept. I wheel my luggage toward the house, remembering the gallows walk of the woman at the depot. And then I am inside, shaking off the chill. I smell scented candles burning. Lavender and patchouli. The gas fire is lit. Fresh flowers burst from a vase on the island counter.

“Now for the surprise,” Carl says. “Close your eyes.”

He leads me through the house. A blind woman, out of place, unable to find her way. 

He opens a door, and I know where we are. It is the spare room, where we store the unkempt matter of our lives — old boxes of photographs, discarded DIY projects.

“Okay, open your eyes!”

Two kittens sit in a fleecy bed looking up with pale eyes. They are tiny wobbly things. They stretch and yawn. 

Correction, I think. I have two weaknesses. 

I pick them up and they smell of sweetness and sleep and the need for love.

“Oh Carl. They are precious. What are their names?”

He shrugs. “We can pick them.” 

Then he turns to face me, and his eyes are glistening. He knows. Oh god, he knows.

He presses his lips together. Blinks. Then he says, “Choose me. Please. I mean, of course it’s up to you. But honey, please… choose me.”

I nod. The clam shell of my heart cracks open. The kittens purr in my arms, and I hold them close. I am home.

Author’s note: Last Night in Fargo was first published in July, 2023 in The Talking Stick Volume 32 anthology: A Twist in the Road, by The Jackpine Writers Bloc.