Reciprocity

From the Black Book

Out of the blue fog of the airport he races, arms full of packages, long legs making short work of the distance between gates.

I see him first, of course, and then moments later, I see the wife, struggling to keep pace. As though by law of reciprocity, she turns her head and sees me. “Where to?” she mouths the words at me. Deliberately, I smile in return the four-letter name of my destination, feeling like a giddy fish, trapped behind coffee shop glass.

Outside the glass, her words were audible, and so he turns his head towards their direction. I watch him pause mid-stride as he catches my eye. I hold that gaze with the clarity of a camera lens. His face breaks into a wide smile, and he follows that with, for him, an out of character jaunty wave.

I do not watch their backs disappear into the dwindling line of people at Gate 5, but I knew the moment that they were gone.

Maybe it’s the coffee, the lack of sleep, or the soporific disorientation at airports, but suddenly, I am ecstatic.