The SUV turned into the half-empty parking lot, crept past the white Subaru, and then reversed two spaces before settling into the first stall next to the driveway. We sat in the sunlight and watched its maneuverings.
“What’s wrong with the other parking space?”
“Not close enough to the museum.”
They climbed out of the car, two retired couples on holiday. The shorter of the two men wore a baseball cap and bright white sneakers. They paused on the steps leading up to the plaza, eyes flitting over the stark landscape. In the quiet spring afternoon, their voices carried across the parking lot.
“So what’s up here?” White Sneakers asked.
“Archeology and anthropology museums,” one of the women answered, studying the direction signs.
“Something to do with digging up stuff, I think.”
“What’s anthropology then?” White Sneakers began to laugh.
No reply this time, but the same woman who had answered him before gestured vaguely at one of the buildings.
“Well, whatever it is, I guess we’ll have to go look at it.”
They slowly walked away.
“Indian things … we’re here anyway,” White Sneaker’s voice drifted back to us on a breeze. He was still laughing.