Time trickles past the feet of people in the Departure Lounge and the carry-on bags so recently X-rayed for bombs and guns and knives and excess quantities of mouth wash.
It trickles past their eyes and down the information screens flickering news of late departures and the gate for Buenos Aires.
It trickles over the floor and into where the girl is sitting in her abandoned electronic gadgets store, across the faces facing shelves of perfumes in the Duty Free, and through the PA system's warnings of unattended bags, and between the sips taken in the bar, and mouthfuls of tasty treats made dreary by the boredom.
It trickles, reluctantly, clasping each transient second as though it were the last.
Then all at once it's in a rush because the flight's been called, and minutes, which just minutes before had hung around like loiterers underneath a bridge and nowhere else to go, are in a headlong charge - and can I find my passport in the time that's left?
The frantic moments pass and now I'm seated in the plane, time settles into trickle mode - and life goes on "hold" again.
No comments:
Post a Comment