The Parenthood Drabbles

Airport

Disclaimer: Me no own characters.

Airport

In the style of Tristan McLean and Aphrodite

He sat down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and dropped his bag at his feet. He'd never been in an airport before but he'd already decided that he hated them deeply.

He was sandwiched between the father of a family of five who were all eating burgers shinny with grease, and an old woman with a scratchy wool sweater that smelled like cats. He'd missed his connection, again because he'd never been in an airport before, and so he'd be stuck here for another five hours.

He pulled a script out of his bag and started looking over Macbeth for the millionth time. He could recall all of the lines except his own. Murphy's Law caught in the act, of course.

During the next hour the scenery changed. The woman with the horrible sweater was still next to him. The family of five had run off to catch a plane or stop the youngest child from screaming his head off, and was replaced by a businessman who'd decided to take four consecutive seats to lie down and nap which just seemed rude. He kicked Tristan every few seconds, but he made a lot less noise so he was ready to put up with him.

He heard something drop and looked up to see a paperback book at his feet. He picked it up and handed it to the woman sitting across from him. She was scurrying to pick up some things and put them back in her purse.

"Sorry, thank you so much," she said taking it from him bashfully. "My fingers are like butter today, I don't know what for..."

"Don't worry," Tristan said. The man next to him kicked him in the side and he clucked his tongue.

"Oh, the joy of airports," she said smiling.

"No kidding," he replied. "I knew there was a reason I didn't fly." Other than the fact that it costs an arm and a leg.

"Then you must be going somewhere important. Where are you off to?" The woman sitting across from him asked.

"London," he said.

"Funny, so am I." She smiled. "But for a man who's going to visit the hub of British culture, you don't seem very excited."

"I'm not," he said. "I'm going for a wedding."

"Weddings aren't half as bad as they sound, if that's what's bothering you. Unless there's some deep unresolved drama in the air- then it can get interesting." She said, smiling at her last sentence.

"Oh, this one's going to be a pain." Tristan said grimacing.

"Don't knock it 'till you try it," she said encouragingly. "Come on. Why is it so very doomed?"

"It's the wedding of a guy who was in one of my classes and decided that he liked me so I must like him too. I haven't talked to him in over a year, but he's either disregarding the fact that I'm so poor I don't even own a suit or assuming that he's important enough to me for me to fly to London to watch him marry a girl I don't even know."

"Sounds complicated."

"It is," Tristan sighed. He was pretty pissed about every single part of it too.

"But you know, you never have to go to the wedding. I've been to a few where the bride didn't even show." She said.

"I guess I just broke down after he pleaded for a while. Plus after you become a guest you stop getting play-by-play emails on the planning because they're 'spoilers'."

She giggled. "You should keep your chin up. Maybe something good will come out of this."

It was like he really started looking at her when she said that. Her hair was brown and sometimes black in the light. Her eyes were the colour of cocoa and her skin was as smooth as a doll's. She was gorgeous, and once her smile and the glitter of her eyes and the way she talked factored in she was beautiful.

"Maybe," he said. "If you don't mind me asking, what brings you to London? Family?"

"No," she said shaking her head. "Just... I'm just wandering."

"Like a backpacker?"

"No, not quite." She said pondering the question. "There's just so much beauty to see, you can't just stay home can you?"

"I suppose not," Tristan said. "By the way, my name's Tristan."

"Oh, right, manners." She said. "I'm Freya."

"That's a goddess, isn't it? Norse if I'm correct."

"It is," she smiled. He remembered now, Freya was the Norse goddess of beauty and love. It sounded shallow so he tried not to pay attention to it, but the thought came to mind: how appropriate.

"What seat are you?" She asked. She looked down at her ticket. "I'm 18C."

"18B," he replied.

"Great!" Freya beamed. "That way you won't be sitting next to his type again."

"Yay," Tristan said trying to stifle a yawn. "Excuse me, you're not boring, it's just that I'm jetlagged already."

Freya laughed. "Walking around helps," she said getting up.

"Well, you're the expert wanderer." He said getting up and picking up his bag, folding his script and slipping it in his back pocket.