Old Cat


Sitting in an airport, you’re bored. You’ve been put in charge of everyone’s bags and they’ve all wandered off in search of primordial sustenance.

There’s an old woman dressed in blues stretched across the seats across from you. She’s sleeping, stretched out like a Russian blue.

She stirs awake and your eyes flicker briefly over her face, making a split second of eye contact. Her eyes are unfocused and indifferent, much like your glance, an automatic reaction to new movement.

She falls back to sleep, and you check your phone.


Your plane doesn’t leave until nine. You wonder briefly if you should mimic her, close your eyes, chase down some of the dreams that have eluded you in your sleepless hours.

You miss dreaming. The fantasies and the magical realism that haunts the corridors of your dreamscape. The vividness and lucidity of the infrastructure. No daydream could ever dare compare to the extraordinariness of your nights in bed with your thoughts.


You sigh. The woman across from you has not stirred in the last two minutes. Rather, you’re left wondering what it would be like to draw something vaguely unfitting or wholly inappropriate on her old weathered cheek. If only there were markers in your bag.

The seconds tick slowly by. Or they would if you had an analog clock. No one has an analog clock anymore. They’re all reliant on digital clocks now. Reading analog is a lost art.

The morning sun peeks through the solid grey cloudscape. Surprisingly, the light is a warm golden-orange-honey hue, cutting swatches of brightness across the mostly concrete, steel, and glass surroundings and perpetually stale, perpetually tired airport oxygen.

You fill your lungs for what must be the millionth time with the stale, tired air. Hold it in, like a smoker and his smoke, let it out, steadily, until you become so lightheaded that the rest comes out in a rush and you greedily suck another breath in.

The Russian blue lady still hasn’t moved.


It’s time to stop waiting. In the distance, some people you know are meandering their way back, and you decide to leave and get something to drink.

Stand up, stretch–twist, cat-like–a slight disappointment when there is no satisfying pop of two vertebrae falling back in alignment–wander off in the direction of the last Starbucks you will see for four days.


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