At The Airport

By Tristan Burke

    I got married once, married to somebody so perfect, so very perfect.  We were in love.  She was beautiful and she adored me.  And I adored her.
We went to the cinema, drank coffee, went out to dinner, stayed at home and watched television.  We spoke on the phone if one of us was away and our conversations always ended in, “I love you.”

     “I love you too,” she'd answer.

At night, we lay in each others arms.

     Then, one day, she went away.  Her job sent her to another country for business: She needed to go finish a big deal in person.  It was what kept us paying the mortgage and ensured our happiness.

     I drove her to the airport.  She was only going to be three days. I went in with her and we drank coffee until her plane was announced.
We stood up and embraced.  She whispered into my ear what we’d do when she returned.  I smiled and kissed her: a long, lingering kiss on her beautiful, red lips.  She walked toward the departures gate, turned and waved, and then walked out of my sight, into the crowd.

     Three days passed, I sat at home.  She didn’t phone, but said that because of the time difference she wouldn’t be able to.  She didn’t want to wake me at two in the morning.

     Finally the time came for me to set off to the airport to collect her.  I climbed into the car and drove straight there.  The plane was due to arrive in ten minutes, so I had about twenty minutes to wait.  I sat and drank coffee, and talked with a man of a similar age to mine who was waiting for his wife to return - she had been to visit relatives.  I could tell from the way he talked about her, his quiet voice and his sparkling eyes, that he was very much in love with her.

     It was announced that the plane had come in, and me and my new companion headed to the arrivals gate to meet our wives.  A man in a blue uniform sat by the door looking thoroughly bored, and the double doors stood grey and bland ahead of us. We only knew that these doors were the ones our wives would soon walk out of, by the sign declaring, ‘International Arrivals’ fixed above it.

     Finally, the doors swung open.  It had been a small flight so there were only a few people coming out of the doors.  My companion’s wife walked from the doors and wrapped him in a clinging embrace.  My wife didn’t walk through those doors.

     I stood still, watching the embracing couple and wondering where she was, why she wasn’t there in my arms.  A tear dropped from my eye.  She must have just missed the plane.

     I returned for the arrival of the next flight, and the flight after that.  Again and again, day after day I came to the arrivals door.  My love never walked through those doors.

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