Of the Terminal \

I am at my best when wringing my hands, when sneaking away on another business trip. The nights leave me hungry for the feast of our afternoons.

When I walk the hallways in this jealous state, I am observant, a coveted skill I have had my eyes on for years, because my own life seems so much more (more) when I am completely removed from the picture.

Even then, it's hard not to imagine what it would be like to join in the conversation at the table in the corner, sitting between the loud woman with the lipstick on her teeth, and the skinny fellow in the bow tie, rolling his eyes and pursing his lips. I would say, hold on to your youth. Everything else gets old. I would enjoy the pause before the laughter, most of all.

I could be invisible, thus, if I was committed to it, and I could whisper beautiful conversation starters to the confounded but thoroughly appetized patrons. I wouldn't have to tuck in my shirt, at least not in the back, or fashion my hair in the latest style, or style my hair according to the latest fashion, in that way that highlights the too slowly coming gray. I would only wear sweat suits and well-made running shoes, I'd take off to the end of the terminal, and never once imagine that it's my name being read over the intercom.