The low buzz of sleepy commuters waiting for early planes and vendors unlocking their gated shops; together their echoes clanged softly off the black-flecked linoleum and sterile cream walls and snaked its way through the near abandoned airport. As employees flicked on ovens and dully shining industrial coffee makers, the fragrance of warming pastries and roasted beans permeated the air. The scent pushed by the never ending labyrinth of air ducts and wove its way through the sprawling airport.
Riding the flow and current of the air, the aroma brought with it a sense of alertness, a sense of something alive to an otherwise near dormant creature. But this essence stopped, dead and cold, at the out-of-the-way gate twenty-six. The Columbia-blue waiting room was far less trafficked than the majority of its siblings, and undersized in comparison. Thirty feet across and twenty deep, the only positive this space could boast was the far wall covered head to toe with heavy glass windows that gave a glimpse at the tarmac and let in the gentle dawn light. In this forgotten room, only three souls dared boast their living state, though shrouding it was a thin veil of sleep.
A scruffy, tanned man, past his twenties prime by almost as much, in a sandy beige overcoat had settled into the last in a row of worn black plastic chairs, upholstered with a long faded fabric. Though to his right the sun was once again seeping past the hard line of the horizon, bringing with it the oft-overlooked miracle of light, his eyes were fixated on the soft illumination emanating from his laptop. Fingers darted from key to key in an intricate dance, preserving a story all his own.
With his back facing the overflow of tender colors that spilled into the room, another man, the writer’s junior by at least a decade, had carelessly chosen a seat in the row lining the window-plastered wall. His expedition was obviously a first for the young business man – his crumpled, blue checkered dress shirt tucked sloppily into his khaki pants showed what his mussed, dirt brown hair and sleep impoverished eyes did not. Leaning back and shoulders hunched over, he struggled to focus his eyes on the fine print of the city newspaper for more than a second at a time – a failed attempt to read of the tragedy that had brought the third soul to stand unaided in a solemn vigil.
She was a strong woman, no matter what her frail appearance might have suggested. Her best years long forgotten, the crumpled fabric of her skin clung loosely to her frame and folded over itself as once firm and rosy cheeks drooped low to hang over the sloping crescent of her neck. Her flesh had paled with years passing with only a handful of days spent in the sun, and her ashy whips of hair were pulled back into a gentle but neat bun. The woman had been latched to the spot since much earlier, and though she had spent most of her vigil lifeless, the swallowing, rough cloth of her knee-length burgundy overcoat now did nothing to hide her trembling form.
(It was time, almost time)
Her stormy gray eyes, empty before, like those of a china doll, sparked to life behind her thick, round rimmed glasses. Movement on the tarmac; could it be…? The spark died, and their color now more closely resembled the muggy gray of fog. The trembling increased and her free hand clenched tightly in pain, unable to control herself any other way. Her other hand, occupied by a well-used leather purse – roughly the size of a notebook and the once rich brown leather now cracked and worn smooth- gripped the handle and a gleaming mahogany cane. She leaned on the polished wood heavily, betrayed by her emotions and unable to support herself for much longer.
But there it was again: movement. Several hundred feet away from her vantage point, was a dully gleaming, gray cargo plane. Blue lines streaked down the back of its windowless hull, concealing the nature of the shipment it carried, though the name of the company written above were lost to the woman’s eyes that struggled against fear.
Then there was a change, motions beside her. A man only a few years her junior, dressed in a solemn black suit and tie, now stood beside her. His skin mirrored hers, though it was thicker than the ultrathin layer that covered her muscle. With his hands clasped tightly behind his back, the man stood erect, implying some military service long ago, and his eyes flicked downward. The dark, wooden cane trembled with the hand that held it and in a moment of silent understanding, he broke his formal posture and placed his hand over hers.
They stood together in silent vigil.
The locked look in his pale-green eyes mirrored the woman’s as they both traced the movements of the workers unloading box after box, until finally two wooden crates constructed of rough and unvarnished pine disembarked. Rectangular and roughly the size of a body, the containters were marched single file onto a platform, only to be driven out of sight.
That was it. They’re here. They’re home.
The woman stopped trembling, and the man let go and ran a hand through his ghost-grey hair with a sigh. Then he disappeared as subtly and silently as he came – just a whisper of a presence left in his place. No rustle of the stiff fabric of his suit, no decrescendo of footsteps vanishing into the rising din in the background, not even a shift in the air.
He was just gone, and she was alone again.