Image by Toa Heftiba via Unsplash

For the Stranger I Met in the Phoenix Airport

“Is that good?” a gray-haired woman asks me, pointing to my book.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I say.

I don’t tell her that I can’t really concentrate, that my eyes are just grazing the shapes of ink across the page, and not absorbing any of it. That I’m too tired and worried to tune in to whatever story awaits. That as we sit in these uncomfortable airport seats waiting…

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