The departure lounge.
We’ve been here forever.
It’s like a strange David Lynch movie. We’re in several places at once. We’re plural. We are we.
She sits silently framed between British Airways flight 304 to Heathrow and Qantas flight 298 to Melbourne. They dance around the tarmac in the distance. Through the large plate glass windows. They line up like stars on the horizon.
She reads.
I have no idea what she’s reading, but I’m watching her face react to the words. It couldn’t be too important. Perhaps something mildly erotic. Perhaps a story about an adventure. Perhaps something about wolves. It doesn’t matter.
I know what she is thinking.
One hundred and thirty three points to his forty seven.
She makes my heart race.
Departure lounges are inherently ironic. Public spaces designed to maximize personal privacy.
We have been here for six hours.
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