On Delayed Flights

Hot, forward, and too close. That was the air. And it seemed to possess the passengers and the speed with which we fed ourselves in and out of the X-ray machines.

'New machines' said the security woman who looked down at my tray exasperated. 'No need for that now'. No need for the neat, quick categorisation of liquids, boots, belt and electronics I had built my tray around. A skill finessed over a lifetime. Habits made redundant.

It was not a practice I ever enjoyed and yet I was ruffled at its quick and unceremonious pass into obscurity.

Such are efficiencies. Grateful and unfair.

Meanwhile, delays fill up the boards. Not a seat to settle oneself upon.

Until - our gate defied the others. 113 all in green. Smiling kindly like a tree.

A hustle, a wave as we dance forward down the tunnels, over the bridges, floating on escalators in the sky.

But at 113, the screen glitches. The boarding notice blinks vacantly.

A moment, then I watch it replaced by the shining dimensions of an airport sign. An inappropriate advert against the slow realisation, the diminishing faith. Against the hot close air unfurling its dismay.

A cancelled flight. There is something to it though. A mixture of loss and gain.

A strange relief. Fear to face. Vindication. Disappointment. The satisfaction of broken promises which this time we did not (this time) break.

It was too good to be true.

So we have evidenced, the impressive power of our cynicism to see the world as, in that moment, we perceive it to be.

Perfect and cruel.