It’s freakin’ cold. I’m seated on a metallic chair, those ugly silver chairs at the airport. I have over an hour to my flight. I hate waiting, so to kill time I have decided to write something senseless and idle, besides I realize the last time I posted something god was a boy. The departure lounge is full. Everybody is fleeing the cold. There is a woman at the end of the room reading a book by Jeffrey Archer, one of those prison diaries. I’m tempted to walk over and start a conversation about Archer because I’m a fan and I’ve read his first prison diary. I hear they are eight. But I won’t walk up because airports are like doctor’s waiting rooms.
There is a couple seated to my left. The man is Caucasian, the woman is black and thin as a drinking straw. Her face is pale, or maybe it’s the make-up. She looks like she could use a good meal. I think her boyfriend is starving her. I think her boyfriend, who by the way looks German, scowls at her every time she looks at food. But they seem to be in love because the girl keeps kissing his stubbly chin and for her trouble he squeezes her skinny thighs with one huge hairy hand. That, is love ladies and gentlemen.
There is a little girl seated two seats to my left. She is with her mother, I assume. They sit in rapt silence. She looks 3yrs old, dressed up like she is going to Alaska. She has yellow woolen stockings and pretty shoes. She is the most beautiful thing in the room and she isn’t even aware of it. She stares at nothing in particular, a blank innocent look. I hope she doesn’t see the German squeeze his woman with
those monstrous hairy hands because that’s the kind of thing that can make the poor girl turn into a lesbian when she becomes of age.
As usual there is always a fat guy in the lounge. This guy has no jacket on, only a tee shirt, which I find amazing because it’s so cold you can preserve organs in this weather! He has, opened on his laps, a sexy Mac Air or some fancy gizmo like that. White headphones run from his ear to his laptop. I wonder what he is listening to, maybe something mushy like Celine Dion. No, I’m kidding. He looks the type who listens to some random music like Angelique Kidjo. How do you spell her name anyway? But this guy is not really concentrating on whatever he is working on because he seems to escort airhostesses with a randy look whenever one ambles by. It’s the damn weather, again.
But air hostesses are not what they were five or even ten years ago. Back then they had long legs, faces of angels and smile that could change the weather. Not anymore. I haven’t seen one striking air hostess today. Most are very regular; most don’t have that swag that they used to have. Most look like they need to do something about their posture. But Big Boy across the room still stares because Big boy across the room has a big appetite.
The room is full of more characters. A man with a nice tweed jacket. A teenage boy who hasn’t looked up from his phone since he sat down, probably writing something nasty about the German on his Facebook status. Then there is the lady with a severe look. The old man who carries his leather briefcase on his laps like it’s a constipating baby. There is a middle aged woman chewing gum furiously (only drug dealers do that by the way). There is a guy leaning against the wall because he can’t find a vacant seat. A KAA official stands at the front of the room, he periodically whispers something in his walkie talkie. he has that anxious look, as if he expects the German to break the poor girl’s brittle thighs. Won’t that be a romantic spectacle?
My time is up. I gotta run.