Nine in the morning, tickets in breast pocket, change of clothes stuffed into briefcase, taxi hailed, time checked on phone lock screen, deep breath taken. The cab driver makes small talk about the weather, about politics, about traffic, and I half-hear and am only half-aware of my responses.
The terminal and the concourse and the gate areas are churning seas of humanity into which I wade fully-clothed. I speak politely but perfunctorily to the ticket agent, to the security officer, to the gate attendant.
I wonder if they know — or if they have guessed — that I won't be coming back.