The uber that picked me up was like out of some Ridley Scott movie.  In the age of Covid, a transparent plastic curtain held up by gray duct tape was all that separated me from the driver.  Viral transmission was too viable for my comfort level, so I squeezed the metal strip on my mask tighter over my nose.

There were less drivers on I-35 than on Mars.  Still, traffic slowed down through downtown where the highway splits into the lower and upper ramps.  It always does.

The line at security was empty, but I stood behind two guys in TSA-Pre, because I was TSA-Pre.  There was no line at the airport lounge, but unless you were a well-connected woman, you had to order your cerveza take-away.

I’m on a coffee run for Karen.  She has this thing for Taste of San Antonio.  You can’t buy it where I’m from.  I’ll be back for more soon.