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.



She rolls her eyes. “Are you jealous?”


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



DEATH starts to whistle.

I glare at her. “Knock it off.”


“The whistling.”

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

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


“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.


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.


A Writer and an artist living in Russia

8 Comment on “DEATH in an Airport

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