Plastic

Three hours later I am perched like a graceless bird on a tall, uncomfortable stool, sipping tea and awaiting the arrival of the others at the airport; their flight is delayed but it gives me a place to work, to roll words out of my head and onto the floor. It gives me the opportunity to stare unapologetically at people, to watch them as they pull little selections of their lives around on wheels, to watch as they struggle to make it out of the terminal building before lighting a cigarette.

My days, though not entirely directionless, lack a clear shape. I could compare it to living with something that is very sporadically demanding, but I’m not sure what that would be. I haven't got the patience to think about it. At least it’s warm in here, which turns my thoughts into spores that settle on the table and the plastic grass. Do plants have the same calming effect on a person if they aren’t real?