I love airports. I love seeing the young women who dress in their nicest boots and carry heavy purses with manicured fingers and high, sleek, hair tied up in the back. I love the enthusiastic blonde parents dressed head to toe in Disney apparel, whose offspring clutch plush animals and sullenly frown at everyone who passes. I love the tiny candy stands; magazines and paper-back books that no one wants to buy, but everyone secretly wants to read.
The best part of being in an airport is knowing that this isn’t your final destination. You can reserve expectations for later, because right now you’re stuck in transition— a bubble. No one cares if you’re wearing high heels or pijamas. Nothing bad ever happens in an airport.
But I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life here.