Trickling Out

He waits for her, outside the airport’s glass wall. He watches her, smiling. Anticipating.

She stands at the baggage carousel and watches the other suitcases go by. She smiles at someone behind her, over her shoulder. Laughs. In that special way.

He can’t see who he is. The one who gets her smile.

His has faded. He waits anyway. He watches her pull her suitcase off the carousel. She pulls out the handle and rolls the suitcase toward the exit, the way through the glass wall.

He waits. Other people trickle out first, like drops from a faucet.

Then there she is, outside the wall. She’s thinner, more tanned from her trip. She smiles at him, but not in that special way. She looks down.

They hug. No kiss.

They walk outside together, his hand in her cool one, until the rain.

Laughing, she runs ahead of him, with her suitcase skipping behind her.

He feels the chill of the rain and watches her go.