Wait

Like most dreadful headaches, It started in an airport. A hectic, crowded to the brim airport, where no one seemed happy and everyone shared the same pessimist thoughts. Chicago International on a freezing December night. December 23rd, to be exact, on the mere cusp of Christmas. Now, the question, of course, is, who in their right mind travels during the holidays? The desperate. Most of the mentally ill—some genuinely psychotic people, I’d say. 

Me, on the other hand, am traveling for the purpose of work. I’m not going home for the holidays; I’m not off to a ridiculously priced resort in Florida to escape the cold; I’m not giddy to visit a friend or a partner. I’m here for work. Good, old, plain work. 

Some might call it depressing, but I don’t mind it. I just wish it didn’t mean boarding a flight two days before December 25th of all days. 

TSA was the beginning of the madness. 

“Empty out your belongings into this bin, please.” The security guy said. 

I obliged and emptied my things out. I only wanted to get through this thing with no problem. 

The man gestures to the security checkpoint; I walk through, no issue. A part of me was relieved, for no particular reason; I’m like that. 

I was handed my belongings and permission to walk off. I quickly found my gate, B4. I had two hours to spare; not bad, I could wait. I don’t mind waiting. 

I take a seat in a corner, away from people, away from forced small talk and conformity. Before using the time to read or get some work done on my laptop, I decide to take in my surroundings. As stated, It’s the holidays; the airport was drenched in red and green decorations. Warm, yellow lights looped around pillars. To my right, on a coffee table, a bowl of mini candy canes. Most of which were broken. What a waste. 

What a waste of time and effort. These decorations will come down in just a few days, and it’ll be like they were never here in the first place. Nothing but a memory for people with uninteresting lives, who’ll probably mention it to their future children with smiles. It’s nothing exciting or important, but they’ll tell them anyway. I don’t know why. It will make them happy. 

The carpet beneath me was brown, muddied, and stained. That, I say, is what an airport is. Not some sugar-coated red and green disguise. Not the bowl of broken candy canes next to me, a deceit that is. Brown, muddied, and stained. An airport, in a nutshell, has nothing more to it, and if you believe otherwise, you are a fraud. A liar. 

The second act and the start of my headache were what blasted through the intercom, for all to hear. For all to share. 

"Unfortunately, for reasons we cannot disclose at the moment, all flights are momentarily canceled.”

And there we go. The realness.

Before the lady on line could even finish her statement, a loud turmoil of frustration and confusion erupted in the area. People stood to their feet, fingers ready to point at anyone who dared to cross their path. 

Humanity. What this species was really made of. A passion—a dirty need. Humans. 

“If we could all remain calm, please, we can assure you the problem is being neutralized and taken care of, but we need you to—”

Some began to cry, some shouted, and most took it up with the nearest employee. All complaints. All desperate. 

The lady’s voice on the intercom shook and grated like it bled. Something was wrong. And the people could feel it.

But what was there to do but wait? I didn’t mind waiting. 

As people cried and yelled bloody murder, I took my book out of my bag and began to read. In the midst of chaos, I read.

And read. 

Until the presence of another human being woke me from my sleep. 

I had fallen asleep. And people still complained. 

He sat next to me; there were at least twelve open seats surrounding us, and he chose the one right next to me. 

This did well to annoy me, but I won’t say anything. What a waste. 

The stranger, though, had other plans. 

“You know you’re probably the only person in this airport, hell, in the world, who could fall asleep at a time like this.” 

He’s trying to be witty. 

I didn’t favor it. 

But he wasn’t screaming, crying, or demanding a refund out of me, so I decided to humor him a little. 

“Sure.” 

“How?” His eyes were brimming with curiosity, wonder, and pure fascination. What a strange look. 

I shrug. 

“I don’t know. Luck, I suppose.” I don’t mean this; I don’t believe in luck. 

He turns his whole body toward me, his legs crossed over one another in the tight seat. “Luck? You don’t seem like the type to believe in that sort of thing.”

I blink. 

“How could you possibly know that?” 

His lip quirks upwards. “Honestly, I guess I’m good at reading people,” he scans me once. “You’re pretty easy to figure out. No offense or anything.”

“Why would I be offended? Are people usually offended by that?”

“Oh yeah, all the time. It’s crazy. I think it’s because they think it makes them boring or predictable.”

I look around, and he follows my gaze. 

“People are predictable and disappointing.” 

He frowns and faces me again. “Not all the time. Yeah, we can be boring and make mistakes sometimes, but we aren’t disappointing. What a dreadful way to look at it. To look at anything.”

I wished to grab him by the head and force his eyes and ears on the disgrace that unfolded before us. That was nothing but a disappointment. There was no other name for it. 

The stranger, with big and curious eyes, continues to watch me. Studying me. 

“Okay, but this isn’t a fair example,” I freeze. “This is a notably stressful situation; I mean, come on, anyone with a sound mind would go crazy waiting for a canceled flight.“ 

My face draws into a grimace. I no longer felt as relaxed as before. 

“I’m not.” I point it out as if it weren’t already obvious. 

He slumps in the chair and cocks his head to the side. 

“No, but I’m not so sure you’re sound of mind yet. Frankly, you seem...troubled.”

I nearly laughed. Troubled? 

“Are you calling me crazy?” 

He’s unphased. “Are you?” 

“I can assure you I'm not.” 

Quickly and boldly, “Assure me then.” 

With a frown, "Well, for one, I’m not throwing a tantrum over a late flight. We’ll get there when we get there; there’s no need for,” I gesture to the room. “All this.” 

The stranger is amused by my answer. 

“That doesn’t make you crazy?”

I scoff. 

“No. What do you deem crazy?”

“You’re not done assuring me,” he states.

I have to refrain from making a rude face. “I’m not sure of what I'm assuring you of exactly. Your assessment on the requirements of insanity isn’t aligning with mine. Therefore, I think this conversation is a waste of time.”

His brow props up with a sly grin. “A waste of time? How one-dimensional.” 

I lean back in my seat and watch the stranger. 

“Where are we going with this? What are you hoping to gain from this interaction?” 

He seems to think about the question. I wait for him.

“I guess I want a different perspective on things. See things—people—through a new lens. You know.”

“What perspective would that be?”

“Yours,” he says simply. 

I blink once, twice. 

“Right. That’s evident enough—what I mean is, why mine? You don’t know me. You don’t know how I view things.”

He scoffs, a reflection of mine. 

"Yes, I do. I knew before a single word came out of your mouth. I knew before sitting down next to you. When I first spotted you, I had you figured out.”

I feel scrutinized. My clothes started to itch, and my back grew sore.

“You don’t know me.” 

“Of course not, but I can see what’s on the surface level. I know you hate people,” he began, and I held my breath. “Your bags look light, almost empty. And the keychain that hangs from it only holds your keys, nothing else. Your clothes are perfectly clean and steamed. Your shoes look brand new. You haven’t been on the phone once and haven’t answered any calls. This leads me to believe you don’t have a family—no kids, no partner. You’re not traveling to see loved ones.” He gestures to my bag on the coffee table. “I’m willing to bet there’s a laptop in there, and you’re here for work.”

I exhaled, attempting to process his words in a way that didn’t embarrass me. I inhale.

With a big and bright smile, “How’d I do?”

I sit up in my seat. “So you guessed, that doesn’t mean anything.” 

“I analyzed you. That was no guess.” 

Squinting, “Do you make a habit of going around airports and harassing strangers?”

“Analyzing.”

“Or is this just a one-time thing, and I’m the unlucky bastard you set your eyes on?”

He smirks, tipping his head. “I thought you said you were a lucky person.” 

I wanted to cry at the irrelevance. 

“Could you answer the question, please?”

He sighs. 

“I wouldn't go as far as calling it a habit, but this isn't new to me.” 

Curiosity gets the best of me. “How many times have you done this?”

He shrugs.

“Enough for it to work.” 

“For what to work?”

His mouth closes with a wet plop. For the first time since meeting, he looks off-put. Almost disturbed, and it was strange to witness. Just a second ago, his eyes were so bright they reflected off the Christmas decorations. 

“Excuse me? For what to work?”

He shakes his head, as if to shrug it off. 

“Nevermind, I don’t need to share that with you.” He says it thinly, and it leaves an unnerving tension I’m not sure I want to escape. 

My mouth goes dry. I look around the room, the continuous yelling and crying. What is wrong with people? What a waste of tears. A waste of sound. 

“People are people. This is the way we’re designed; we have emotions, and we have wants and needs. It’s human what we do. Natural and embedded into the root of our souls, here to stay. You,” he says, running his gaze over me, “you’re the odd one out.”

This catches me. Pulls me in. 

“What?” I can’t help but say. 

He scowls, a pity look. 

“It’s the holidays, and you’re in an airport at 5 in the morning, alone, boarding a plane for a job. Willingly. No one twisted your arm and forced you here. You’re doing this on your own accord, and you like it. You prefer it. The loneliness is welcomed, and when it finds you; you embrace it. That’s odd. That’s inhumane. You have to be aware of this, right?”

Unable to face the stranger and his cold remarks, I glance down at the floor. 

The carpet. And the brown, muddied, stained atrocity stares back at me. I feel caught. 

“It isn’t,” I try, “loneliness.”

“What is it then?” 

When my lips parted to speak, the stranger was met with silence. I didn’t know—I don’t know. He knows I lacked an answer. 

“Don’t go around judging the whole world for simply reacting to life. We’re doing the best we can.”

I manage to pull my eyes from the floor, but they don’t quite reach him. 

“All I’m saying is, just try. Try to feel. You’re imperfect—now love it. Or, at the very least, accept it.”

I finally find him. 

“Before you spend another winter alone in an airport. Waiting on a canceled flight until you die.” 

I exhale, and my breath is shaky. It reeked of vulnerability. 

He gives me a warm smile and sits up from his seat. It’s only then that I notice the absence of his luggage. Not even a backpack, pockets empty. 

Before I could stop the words from leaving, I blurted out, “Where are you even going?” 

The stranger’s expression remains the same, unmoving. What a strange man. Strange.

“Try. I won’t be back to tell you again,” he states.

I frown, completely in the dark. 

He sighs and nods, about ready to get going.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Best of luck, stranger,” he says and bids me goodbye. 

He walks off into the mess of people, and I lose him within seconds. I’ll never see him again. 

Now, he’s nothing but a memory. A story to tell my future children. 

Huh. 

Suddenly, through the intercom, the lady’s voice returns.

“Flight B4 to New York is officially canceled. Refunds are available—”

I stop listening, ears blaring in alarm. I turn my head in the direction of where the stranger once stood and I watch. Hoping to see him once more. One more time. But he doesn’t show. He never will. 

And I can’t wait for him. I can’t wait. 

I quickly grab my luggage and walk out of the airport, uninterested in any sort of refund. I didn’t have time to wait in that long line. 

On the drive out of the airport, I call my mother. 

I ask her what she's doing for Christmas.