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Metta

Roanoke-Blacksburg Regional Airport, 4:27 p.m.

I've always loved airports. The sense of purpose when the flight attendants, captains, first class, walk around the airport, always early. Sometimes the passengers grumble or sulk around the boarding gates, mostly keeping to themselves and wait and wait and wait and wait. It's that rare occasion that you and stranger that's been waiting there for one or more hours anticipating the upcoming flight, strike a conversation and something sparks. An interest in who this individual is, because really there's not one person on the planet who's just an existence. Everyone has a story, everyone is a story. Not only that but you've just met a person, who, you may never have met, and probably never will meet again. I loved the way the food courts smelled and the way the little shops all have their own little theme; each one like a trap for losing all your money. Hilarious, when you see the little children pining to get those silly insignificant $15 dollar keychains that'll be lost within the month or two. None of this compares to the feeling of exaltation when the trembling plane lifts off the ground and into the vast nothingness that we call sky. I used to love airports. That was before.

Now as I walk through the automatic door I am utterly crippled by the stench of cleaning supplies, stale coffee, sweat, and the slightest hint of vomit. Disgusting. The noise is no better, hundreds of sweaty bodies mumbling to themselves, yelling over the phone, sharp inhales as busy bodies rush to the now boarding gates, the pitter of so many hearts. Too many hearts. The sound in my ears could be closely described as thunder of the most terrible kind. Unsynchronized, rhythmic beating, slowly driving me mad.

I push the feelings of disgust and complete annoyance away and make my way to gate A26. I can feel Tayllor watching me out of the corner of his eye and waiting for some tremendous outward rage to explode from me. Just waiting for some small reason to whisk me out of here and back to the hotel room we'd just escaped from. I know this because he doesn't want me to go back. He's scared, he doesn't think that i know this, but it's hard not to notice when he won't stop staring and wringing his perfectly tanned hands. If  was any ordinary girl, I wouldn't even notice how petrified he is, or if I was maybe I'd mistake the signs for a fear of flying. Heights maybe, that's an obvious one. Too bad for him I know. I know it's not the ride that makes him anxious, its me. He is putting 169 years of instinct to the test by giving me his trust. Never before has he allowed any of his new traveling companions to return home for even the slightest of reasons. I am the exception.