Friday, February 4, 2011


The loudspeaker fades with a dry crackle. Boarding has been delayed.

I swivel the postcard rack. Nothing looks quite right.

And it's hard to believe that I'm in Santiago--in the airport, anyway--and I had no way to reach Sevario, to let him know.

Don't be silly, I remind myself. He has a job.

But would a postcard be good? Something to pass the time. My sweater feels hot and itchy.

I hate to travel. I hate to travel alone. And I'm alone.

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