Thursday, August 23, 2007


How I hate this airport lounge. Not because I am bored. Not because I have four, free wifi connections to choose from. Not because I don’t have some of the best in contemporary fiction to read. Not because I am sort of embarrassed for having laughed out loud watching Spidey Pig.

The airport. A transit between where I am from and where I don’t want to go, reminds me of where I want to be. Every gate. Every announcement. Every smile. Reminds of the lounge being my last resort. My last escape to be there. I am so close to being where he is. I have dreamed of the day I will step out of the airport lounge. Where he is.

But I dare not. I fly towards him, but not far enough. I will probably fly over him, but not to him. I will never walk through the one airport lounge that waits for me. It’s too late. Much too late. I am free of him. But not free of the dream.

My feet slip into the black flip flops. My vest clings me at the right places. I am casual yet ecstatic. I run into him. I can’t hug him. He hugs me so tight. I lose my breath. I lose my heart beat. I collapse. I can feel something wet on his cheeks. It’s us. Oblivious to the past and the future.

And I sit here munching my last chocolate bar, listening to every announcement, hoping the next flight will go to him. Someday, it will take me to him.

I am inventing stories about the Japanese lady wearing blue wedges and the Arab girls who should be in school instead of raiding Mac. The juggler is doing his act. Every minute he drops the blue, red balls. He keeps juggling for me. We both wait. The act never ends.

I wait and stare at the yellow lights, grey panels and filtered sunlight.