Short Story

Healing Wounds

Denise yawned and checked her watch as the taxi pulled away from the rank. It was 14:02, local time, but 9:02 back home.
“Good flight,” the driver asked.
“I would have preferred to fly myself.”
“Yourself?”
“I'm an air force Captain.”
“Can't place you accent,” the driver said, “Canadian?”
“Well done,” she smiled.
The driver smiled, “Never been good with accents, “heard somewhere it's best to assume Canadian.”
“Never given much thought to it really.”
“I'm Welsh,” the driver said, “Know all about national identity.”
“It's important. And I know I'm in Wales now.”
“Mostly only comes up during sporting events.
“Only ever played hokey myself,” Denise said, “helps to know a martial art for that.”
“Thought that was just for jokes.”
“Not the way I play.”
The driver drummed his fingers on the searing wheel waiting for the lights, “what brings you to this green and pleasant land?”
“Wasn't that England?”
“That's what they want you to think.”
“Seeing my brother,” she said, “I crashed my helicopter recently – life flashed before by eyes – wanted to heal the other type of wound.”
“I saw that on the news. Your a hero.”
“I crashed the damn thing.”
“You got it down safely.”
“True,” she yawned again, “but I just did what any pilot would've done.”