Now

The whole of human interaction can be observed in an airport. The range of feeling is explicit because it is so extreme; nothing is done by halves. Everywhere miniature dramas are unfolding, the characters drawn in brief strokes, incomplete, taking a back seat to the theater of emotions. The connections are fleeting but passionate, exothermic reactions that flare brilliantly and then consume themselves, leaving all parties tired and teary-eyed in their wake.

You think of this as you sit stiff-backed and watchful in the terminal, twisting restlessly in the unforgiving, mass-produced chairs which are linked one to another in long chains to provide the appearance of leisure. The drab gray plastic is hard and slightly moist, and the heat of your body molds you to the rigid backrest, so that when you lean forward your skin separates from the smooth material with a wet, slurping sound. You are sweating despite the insistent susurrus of the air conditioning; the press of warm, living bodies is all around you, choking the air with an animal heat. Even herded together in a pretense of solidarity each person is walking a separate path, minds consumed with numbers and dates and a thousand tiny worries, faces closed in, personal, holding the world at a distance.

And you, you are sitting unmoved in the middle of it all, watching the world swirl around you with an outsider's eye. You are not a part of the story, you are only an observer. Your story is in the waiting, the watching, and the heavy silence that fills your head despite the mad clash of voices that surround you. Your story is in the past, and the future, and the breathless expanse in between. Your story is in the tickets bent in your sweating hand, the agitation of the clock as it lurches and stands still, the weighty thud of your heart, and the growing knowledge that he's not coming, that you fucked it up for the last time, that it's just too late.


Ten months ago

It was fun, having a secret, and you sometimes wondered if that was where the attraction lay. When you held him in your arms you were creating something private, something sacred shared only by the two of you. You kissed and giggled into each other's mouths, giddy with your knowledge, feeling clever, daring, a little sly and self-satisfied. It was the kind of easy secret that was trivial to the outside world, but seemed momentous to you, far-reaching, life-changing. All couples have this secret between them. This tiny flame cupped in both hands, sheltered from the outside world, a warm and dazzling thing that is all their own.

You liked having something all your own, something that no one could take away from you. You didn't understand why he wanted to change that, to tarnish its brilliant luster by exposing it to the rest of the world. Wasn't it enough that the two of you knew you were in love? Wasn't it enough, the sidelong smiles and the inside jokes? Weren't you enough anymore, wasn't your love enough just as it was, imperfect, unwavering, flawed?

"Of course you're enough," he whispered against the back of your neck, gliding his hand over your sweat-soaked hair. "I don't want anyone but you. I just want to share that with the world. Can you understand that?"

You couldn't, not really, but he wasn't asking, he was pleading, and you nodded stiffly in the dark, feeling how much it meant to him when his arms tightened around you, swallowing past the sour taste in the back of your throat.


Six months ago

The puppy had been your idea, true, but you hadn't thought of the implications at the time. It was just a spur-of-the-moment idea, something sweet and silly to make him laugh. So you felt justified in being just a little surprised when he suggested moving in together, coming completely out of left field. Dazing you so that for a moment you could do nothing but stare and blink, until concern darkened his sunny face and you had to force yourself from your stupor.

It wasn't that didn't want to move in together, you explained. It was just that you'd never even considered it before. You needed some time to think, it was a big decision, and you didn't want to rush into anything.

"Rush in? we've been together for six months now. Who's rushing in? Look, if you're not sure about us, then maybe we should just--"

You said yes. Terrified of losing what you had, of finding out what the two of you should just, you said yes. Because you did love him, and because it made his eyes light up like sunlight on the ocean, and because you thought that maybe, this was the way to be happy.


Two months ago

You want to get the story straight. You didn't stop loving him. And you didn't do it to hurt him. You just needed an escape. Yes, it was a bad decision. Monumentally bad. Epically bad. Running-with-scissors, golfing-in-a-thunderstorm, parking-your-car-in-West-Grand-Avenue bad. It was the worst thing you'd ever done to another human being in your life. You could understand if he never forgave you.

But it didn't stop you from hoping he would.

"Put your clothes on," he said in that low, reasonable voice, his face betraying nothing as he lobbed the bundle of clothing at the naked stranger in his bed, "and get the fuck out of my house."

You studied your palms as the man stumbled out the door, still half undressed, his shocked eyes gazing wide and questioning at you before the door slammed shut and hid him from your sight. You didn't want to look up, didn't want to see the rage in his eyes, the disgust, the dismissal, but when you finally forced yourself to meet his gaze what you found there was far, far worse. He looked like a man who'd been sentenced to death. His hands were trembling but his voice was steady, and he didn't cry as he said, "Get out."

You cried. You cried enough for both of you. Coughing and sobbing as you gathered up your clothes, too ashamed to try and explain, too shocked to reason, too destroyed to beg. You left silently, left him standing in the middle of the room with his shoulders slumped, looking like an old man, you left him there and didn't say a word.


One week ago

The tickets were cool and dry under your fingertips, a comforting physical reminder to ground you as you poured your heart into the phone. He listened quietly, never interrupting you, only occasionally letting out small, breathy sounds that buzzed with static across miles of telephone wire to let you know that he was still there. You tried not to make excuses, and you tried not to beg for forgiveness, but you were failing miserably at that last attempt as your voice rose higher and higher and the tickets wrinkled under your fingers. You sketched an image of paradise, empty beaches and twilight conversations that stretched into the weak and mewling hours of dawn. You painted pain, and love, and redemption, and still he said nothing, waiting for you to empty yourself of the burden of these words, to unload your heavy heart, to cry, to break, and to finally run dry.

"One week isn't a lot of time. I'll have to think about it," (and here you flinched, tasting bile as the words were flung back in your face), "I'll really have to think. I'll be there or I won't, okay? I'm not saying I'll be there. I'm just saying�I just have to think."

Though it hadn't been a benediction in any sense, your heart felt a little lighter, hope softening the sharp edges. He hadn't said no. He hadn't said yes, but he hadn't said no, and you clung to uncertainty, counting down hours in your head, feverish and eager, counting the seconds until you would be together again.


Now

An automated voice crackles over the P.A. system, and you pick up from the static-charged rushed-together words that your flight has finished boarding and is about to take off. Everywhere around you people are coming together and coming apart, exchanging heated words and tender kisses in equal measure, but they are distant, on the periphery, you are not a part of them. A mother is hugging her teenage daughter goodbye. A young boy is fighting with his brother. A bent old woman is smiling tremblingly and receiving her weary husband into her arms. But there are no young men with soft, unruly hair searching the terminal for their loved one; there are no smiling-eyed boys coming to sweep you into their arms. The plane touches off and soars into the air on impossible steel wings, and you are alone in an airport terminal with two tickets in your hand, and he isn't coming, you've fucked it up for the last time, and you are just too late.

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