Thin morning light drip-dripping through the coffee filter over the way. The hushed chatter of stifled yawns and small talk in the business lounge, outside the tenderness of wingtips brushing past each other in the confusion of early fog and touches the burnt soul. A red light warning flashes there. To his left through the window Air France lazily taxies towards the runway whilst Aer Lingus complains of stomach ache with baggage rumbling through its belly. To his right an imperious eyebrow arches at the screen of a smart phone, a sigh comes whistling through the pursed lips, two brown hands start to fiddle with the band on a finger, might be middle or index, sliding it teasingly over the hilt of the joint to the bed of the fingernail and back again. The sigh comes again. He shifts a little in his seat, slides the burden of the grief from one shoulder to the other, and looking sideways says,
"If you're gonna have it off, have it off." His voice cracks, he turns away his face towards Air France shimmying prettily tail in the air southways to take-off. "Please," finds its way out too, and so does a smile, half of one at least, two-thirds, ragged hand-me-down of the brothers from a better time.
Eyebrow raises. Brown hands stop fiddling, the ring comes off and in the second before it hits the table Aer Lingus' engines roar into life and send the band skidding across the table to the precipice where it spins, thinking about it, and then drops to the floor.
He bends down to pick it up, teeth gritted. Eyebrow relaxes with the smile down beneath it and other joins it in its pretty satisfaction. He holds it there, in his palm, his own hand, hugged in between the folds along the life-line, still warm from hers. He makes a fist. It can stay there, he thinks, thankful for the glimmer of warmth, for the time being.
Eyebrow raises again with the body towards the ceiling.
"Where you going?" He asks, standing too. Eyebrow looks at him, the rest of her too, she- she looks at him with an infuriating query in her frown.
"I said I'd wait with you until seven."
"You said you'd wait with me until boarding."
"Until boarding, back when boarding wasn't delayed. I have things to do, Danny."
"Oh, yeah. Of course." Maybe a snatch of sarcasm, seventy percent humble acknowledgment of a life slowly peeling away from his own. Things to do. It rings in his head, maybe it's the lack of sleep, the kick of coffee, something in between, but it could be a chorus.
Him standing there, awkwardly, one hand stuck into his pocket growing sweaty around the platinum band growing hot on in his palm, his little finger wrapped around a shredded tissue. A real orchestra of textures and in front of him, all eyebrows and eyes, brown eyes, avoiding his, looking for the door. Silence slides in between, Air France arcs towards the sky and it seems to precipitate the sudden rush in the lounge, people surging suddenly up out of massage chairs and slumber towards the gate. And the strange quietness in his head, now. And the strange smile on her face, now.
"Well, this is awkward."
"Saying that is only going to make it more awkward." He claps his mouth shut, eyes dip to the floor for some respite, and then, the hand coming suddenly out the pocket, the tissue bits tumbling to the floor like snow even though it's the middle of August-
"Here," he says, unfurls his palm. She looks at him with her eyes golden in the sun which has just started its slow ascent towards the peak, the side of her mouth drops in a trying grin, she slowly pushes her hair behind her hair (that was just what he was wanting to do, in fact) and gives a shake and a nod of her head at the same time.
"I should really go."
"Just," he says, and dares to make the connection, his hands around hers which flutter, little bird in a cage. Her look is drooping, tried and tested, impatience making her edgy. She has the brownest eyes, he thinks to himself, the same thing he has thought many times before, and presses his hand. She resists.
