Airport 4 AM


Dreams in the night. Waking dreams.

Now she is wandering through the small town airport dragging the suitcase behind her like a reluctant child. Her eyes scan the expanse of glittering floor, the sea of worn blue carpet. A woman in uniform smiles, asks if she may help.

Another city. Days later, or years. Eternal. She stares through the tall window across the flat roofs topped with functional gray blocks, pools of black water, crumbling chimneys. Gleaming towers of copper and cobalt and cerulean, poetic names that soar above the real colors chosen by the architect. Red. Blue. Green.

She holds a glass of wine. The man takes her name, incurious, eyes habitually gliding down her chest and back. May I help you? He doesn’t smile.

The chair is hard and hurts her ass. When was the last time she thought of him, of them, of any of them?

They are calling her flight. Another city. Another destination.


Sunday Photo Fiction


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  1. Graham Lawrence

    Thanks for the story and the word incurious! I’ve just woken up from another dream and recognised the qualities.

Don't just stand there.