His dark hair, curled from the dampness of the rainy day, stands out at the nape of his neck. A blue travel bag rests beside him, the strap carelessly dropped to the floor. I gaze out the window into a rain-splashed water puddle made twelve stories deep by its reflection of the control tower and wonder why he looks familiar. He never glances up from his reading even when he sips his drink. Roboticly, we line up at the gate, watch the machine gobble up and spit out our boarding passes, stroll down the red-carpeted corridor to the plane and wait.
Today is no different.
People rush to stand in line then everyone waits while someone tries to stuff his too-large suitcase into an overhead bin. He finally succeeds, crushing some man s hat in the process, and the line moves on. The plane is nearly filled. There is no one in the seat beside me. Passengers are arranging themselves in the too-narrow seats while the stewardess closes overhead bins with a decisive snap.