Chairs; a short story
We’re sitting in chairs. We’re comfortable, but not overly. We’re tired – the lights overhead are just a little too bright.
No one is talking, but sporadic eye contact says enough. In the distance I can hear a woman talking. She sounds muted – my mind is elsewhere.
Seal sighs as he sits down beside me. My chair back shakes as he drops his body onto the seat. He appears to have returned with a snack. It looks like a muffin, but I can’t be sure.
I feel sick. I decide not to eat.
The mood feels suppressed – the room feels thick with anxiety. The silence between all of us is almost deafening. I check my boarding pass for a second time.
I draw breath, and then relax back into my chair.
Everything is fine.
I glace at the photo on my Passport. I hardly recognize him. Is that a smirk, he’s wearing? I can’t tell. I’m playing the waiting game. I think back to my work term. It’s already a distant memory. I can’t remember if I returned my swipe card.
In my lap is a GQ Magazine. “Nice suit,” Mark comments. Agreed.
I glance up at Brett sitting across from us as he shuffles through tracks on his iPhone. He’s wearing flip flops. The Social Network comes to mind.
Time has stalled. I check my watch. The second hand is dragging. The anticipation is almost painful. I lean against my wallet – it’s a force of habit, at this point – I know it’s there.
I’m ready.
And then, in an instant, everything changes. The sound of the speakers are drowned out by the rush of noise. The terminal is organic. My eyes are darting left and right as bodies rise out of their chairs. We stand, exchanging nervous glances.
Time seems to have accelerated. We’re moving so quickly. Is this it? Are we really here? The rush of adrenaline.
“Boarding pass, please.”
Vegas.
