500 Words: Terminal

Paul stared at the departures screen, fiddling with his keychain, the wildcat high school mascot now looked out of place amidst the other keys. 1530. CDG-Paris. On Time. No gate number yet. He looked at his watch. 12:00. Stupid business trips. He was so tired of airports, even if they were in Europe.

He found a little lounging area and lucky enough, an entire couch was free. He was about to take a nap when someone tapped him on the shoulder. There was a woman who looked about his age, dressed comfortably in black pants, and a slouchy grey sweater. He allowed this intruder one eye, blearily peering over the magazine page he had set as a make-shift eyemask.

“Hi, I’m so sorry but there aren’t any couches left and you look like the kinda guy who’d take mercy upon a kind soul?”

Paul let her have the other eye as he swung his feet off and motioned her on the to have a seat. Yeah, after all he was, in fact, that kind of guy. The nice kind. Damn, he thought.

“Thank you. I just have such a long layover. I wonder how much time people spend in airports? More or less than sitting on the can?”

Paul didn’t know what to make of that, so he just gave a standard two-beat chuckle.

“I’m Lucy, by the way.”

 “Paul.”

“Enchanté,” she said, blowing fake smoke from a pretend cigarette. “And where are you off to, Paul?”

“Paris, actually,” he winced.

“Oh come on! Paris? You sound like you are on your way to the guillotine—albeit a French sounding word, but c’mon. It’s Paris.”

“No, you’re right, it’s just not for fun,” Paul said nodding to his briefcase.

Lucy stuck out her tongue and made a face.

“Exactly.” He sighed.

 “So, where’s home?”

“Boston.”

“No way! I live in Back Bay!” she said, jumping a little closer to Paul.

“Really? I didn’t mark you down for a Bostonian. No accent and all,” Paul remarked, not complaining about the decreased space between them.

“Well, I grew up in San Francisco.”

“What? Wait—I did, too!”

Lucy’s jaw dropped dramatically. “Where’d you go to high school?”

“St. Ignatius, you?”

“Oh no,” Lucy said, in a mock grave tone, “I don’t think we can be friends.”

“No! Don’t tell me you went to Sacred Heart!”

“Mortal enemy. I’m sorry. You seemed like a nice guy,” Lucy said, shrugging.

“Hey, since we both have an unendurable amount of time before our flights, wanna grab coffee?” Paul ventured.

“Sure! I just gotta use the loo.”

Lucy left Paul—who was looking more refreshed than ever, but she didn’t go to the bathroom. She walked past it, down a couple of gates, and spied a lone gentleman sporting a Knicks baseball cap.

In her best New Yorker accent, she said, “Hey ‘scuse me, do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all. It’s nice to see another New Yorker.”

“Born and raised,” Lucy said with a smile.