I watch the plane through the glass, backing away from the building and off to the runway, before quickly moving out of my line of sight. I should have known better. There must have been an earlier flight or something, anything. 5 hours in between flights and I’m already through security. Nothing but Duty Frees and magazine stands. Airports give me headaches, something so melancholy about the coming and going of lives, business, whatever. Nobody ever seems happy here. Or at least at my gate, the 7 PM flight to Seattle. But I guess, who could be happy going to Seattle?

I wonder what it’s like to work here, to look at these unhappy faces day after day. Selling them stupid tabloids and bottles of water.

I consider taking a walk, but it’s all the same.

Landing pads.
Shopping chains.
Jet lag.

My mother met my father in an airport.

I guess that’s why I am how I am.