Terminal - short short

We passed Southern University, the historically black college in Baton Rouge, with the amazing marching band. I was hungover, my passenger knew it. He was angry, but too passive-aggressive to tell me.

It was a bright, hot, August afternoon. I had to drop him off at the Baton Rouge Metro Airport for his flight back to Connecticut. We'd had an early lunch at Pinetta's--the concept of food horrified my churning stomach so we took it to go.

My mind was elsewhere. He was supposedly my boyfriend at the time, long-distance, but I didn't broadcast it. He wanted to marry me, and steal me away to Connecticut. If I had admitted to myself that we were dating, I would have also had to admit that I had cheated on him four or five times by that point. And I wasn't a cheater, so that was out of the question.

The party I'd been to the night before was not the one he went to. I'd ditched him after work and said I was tired, before I got rowdy drunk elsewhere--a place with less responsibility. We said nothing as I turned down the long entrance to the terminal parking lot. I didn't think to drop him off at the taxi-lane in front--doing so would have saved him the trouble of carrying his luggage all the way from the parking lot. I parked on the top level; I let him carry his bags.

The terminal was speckled with a few travelers, and the coffee shop I'd hoped for was closed. I looked away from the giant windows looking out onto Southern University, the place was too bright for my throbbing head. I looked at him, and he looked ahead. The illuminated Terminal sign reminded me of a cancer ward in a hospital.

He hugged me, hard, and I tried to give him one of those hugs that tells a person without a doubt that they are loved and will be missed--one of those reserved for family members and people in love.

I didn't have it in me. He left the lobby early.

I stayed there for a while, long after his flight had been scheduled for departure. I bought a newspaper and tried to do the crossword, but my headache prevented me from thinking too hard. I don't know why I felt like lingering when my hangover kept reminding me that I should have slept in.

• When I left the lobby, his plane was probably landing in Chicago for a flight change. I'd always wanted to go to Chicago. I could have gone with him, and he would have paid any last-minute fees if I'd only asked. But I had a headache, and all I wanted to do was go home and sleep, and dream of that hug I wanted to give him--that one that tells a person without a doubt that they are loved and will be missed, reserved for family members and people in love.