Airports 2 (fragment)

The little shit seat kicker sitting directly behind me  – running his little fucking tin toy up and down the window sill, making his irritating little car noises ‘brrmm brrrmm, screech, screech, brrmm, craaaaaash, – his parents oblivious or not caring how I could lean over the seat and poke his nasty little eye out with the little plastic fork that the air hostess has so kindly supplied me with and which I have broken off the two outside tines so that one sharp, jagged little protubence stands out  – ready to snatch an eye. There – I feel better already.

You see them at every airport. Early to arrive, slightly overweight or they have just filled out their grey, black or pink pants too many convenience meals. Tottering on high heels usually matched in colour to the blouse worn under the suit. Black suit with frilly white blouse, white shoes, grey suit, black accessories. They sport slightly out of date hair styles but always, always, the sunglasses are perched on their hair nests. The laptop bag opened at any oppurtunity as if they have to prove to the world that they have some worth. Oh! And the cellphone is checked every five minutes for longed for messages from men who have forgotten them as quickly as they made their acquaintance.

They invariably stare at magazines (or at least at the photo’s in magazines), idly flicking through the pages with a handhold that looks like some obscure wrestling hold.  Like those people who resemble their dogs, threes people end up looking the same – as though their lives would be better off if they lived inside the pages of a magazine.