DEATH in an Airport

indian_death

A layover in Ataturk Airport is quiet. The restaurants are all closed–not the bars, but I’ve already drunk myself to sleep once.

I sit outside Gate 227A; it’s close to the smoking room. I look down the row of seats to find a middle-aged Indian man half-way through a bar of snickers, laughing. I look around him and find DEATH sitting in the seat beside with the face of someone who feels as though they just told a rather good joke. I frown at her.

“What?” she mouths, catching my eye. I shrug and lean back, arms crossed. I see her from the side. She gets up and pats the Indian man on the leg, says something. He nods, continuing to chuckle.

She walks over to me, swaying a bit, sits.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you jealous?”

“What?”

She crosses her arms, mocking. I let mine down.

“No.”

“Good.”

DEATH starts to whistle.

I glare at her. “Knock it off.”

“What?”

“The whistling.”

She whistles louder, then stops. “Are you going to stop pouting?”

I nod. “Do you talk to everyone?” I ask.

“No.”

“Does he see you the same way I do, like, as a little white girl?”

DEATH frowns, “yeah.”

“Doesn’t that bother him?”

DEATH looks over at the Indian man. He is dozing off with a light smile.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

I watch him too, jealous.

“Well, have you always been this way?”

She nods.

“Huh,” I say, without meaning to. Then, “why?”

She seems to actually be thinking about it, then throws up her hands, “someone’s idea of a sick joke it seems.”

“Who?” I ask, before I can stop myself, knowing her answer. She knows, I know, and so, says nothing.

I move on, “what about like aliens, and stuff?”

“And stuff?”

“Aliens, then.”

“There are no aliens,” DEATH says, simply. I look out of the big wall of windows, up.

“Really?”

DEATH shrugs, “how the hell would I know?”

“I thought you took everyone?”

“Maybe death isn’t so damn important to everyone as it is to you people,” she mumbles. Her eye’s tilt a bit. I look her over, suspicious.

“Are you drunk?”

She nods, “why aren’t you?”

I shrug, “already drank myself to sleep once.”

“Oh, what a surprise,” she goads.

I laugh. “Want to have a cigarette?”

She nods again. She grabs onto my arm for support and we tip-toe past the sleeping Indian man.

 

8 Comments

  1. How nice, once again a death story. They do not seem to be able to live without each other, the two of them. But they do not seem to have much fun, even if this story is still almost romantic at the end … my favorite sentence: “Maybe death is not so damn important to everyone as it is to you people” …. it is Always a great pleasure to read new stories from you Flash!

    Liked by 2 people

      1. thats interressting because it is only weird the first one or two stories. Afterwards it is normal. First of all, you know, she never take sombody ( beside Frank, but this is the sense of the frank-stories, isn´t it?) and second, nobody fears her..she´s a cheeky, strange girl, nothing more. I got the feeling beeing death, it´s just a job, like hairdresser, and he gets jealous when she cuts the hair of other men…? This means on the other side you should also think about real death. May be it´s also something less then everybody thinks.

        Liked by 1 person

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