The lounge is is full of women, and somehow, four out of five are Oriental. And they’re all totally slicked out, the Orientals, at least. The whites seem to be all Hawaii-Meets-Abercrombie-and-Fitch. No one can compare to the way she looks, pacing across the eye of my mind. A tall Thai glides past, and her walk reminds me of her. The same slow stride, leading from the hip, each foot placed with the grace of a cat. But it’s only illusionary, I realize. Even in the huge transit lounge she would have stood out like a star. There are no stars here, and I wonder what she’s doing. It will be past midnight where she is. Asleep. Pillow soaked with the tears she swore she would hold off ’til I was gone. I have never been with anyone like her. Totally out of my league, and I know it. But yet. What sort of love makes a goddess look at a mortal?
Transit. It seems like my life has always been in transit. Sri Lankan, but not quite; European, but not yet; out of the war, but still living it; born again, but with something missing; author, but not really; almost divorced, almost single. Almost totally in love. Almost free. Almost there. But not quite. Almost happy.
I walk across to the glass and stare out past the runways to the desert beyond. I know I am burning up with each gyration towards the flame. I don’t care. My eyes close. The world dims. The star burns.