Shiny Pebbles

I try to calm my churning stomach by counting my breaths to ten, over and over.

The man in front of me chews on the end of his cigar. "Waste of time and money." He spits on the floor. "As long as we're stuck here for a while, I might as well introduce myself." He offers me his hand. "I'm Jack."

I wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans and shake his outstretched hand. "Hi, Jack, I'm Trish."

"So, Trish, what makes you brave the storm?"

"My father just died."

"I'm so sorry, my condolences. Too bad the funeral can't wait for better weather."

"This storm is perfect for Dad's final exit. It would suit his sense of the dramatic. What about you?"

"Your father must know my daughter. She's getting married tomorrow. The mother of all bridezillas, that's my girl. She turned her wedding preparations into a soap opera." He nods his head. "Weddings and funerals, those are the things that bind us."

A lavender-haired woman, lugging a bag decorated with cats, walks through the metal detector. A buzzer sounds. She shakes in her sagging stockings and wilts to half her size while the security officer frisks her. He pulls something out of the front pocket of her bag. A crochet hook. The airways are now a safer place.

The next victim shrugs out of her coat, then throws it on the conveyer belt. Her hair is blonde and teased. She wears skin-tight jeans, and a star-spangled sequined top that barely hides her Texas-sized assets. She sashays through the metal detector. A buzzer sounds.

The security officer gawks and drops the crochet hook. The lavender-haired woman scoops it up from the floor, and winks at me before she walks away.

The men waiting to go through security stop talking and stare. Jack almost swallows his cigar.

"Don't even think of touching me, jerk," she sneers at the security officer. "It's my under-wire bra, and I'm not taking it off!"

"God bless America," the woman behind me whispers under her breath as the blond marches out of sight.

Finally, I'm next. I wonder what guilty secrets the security gauntlet will reveal. Those extra two pounds I gained last week? The half-empty pack of cigarettes shoved into my purse?

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and step through the metal detector. No buzzer, not even a look from the security officer.

I retrieve my battered carry-on and pull out the handle. Bag in tow, I join the crowd of travelers that pushes me through the corridor. My breathing is labored, my heart is palpitating, and the suitcase handle almost slips out of my moist fingers.

The corridor opens into a huge room bordered by kiosks and doors. To my left, an electronic sign flashes my flight number and destination. People are starting to board, and I weave quickly between other travelers to join the line.

A lightning bolt cracks the grey skies, followed almost immediately by thunder that shakes the building. Children run to the windows to press their noses against the glass. They laugh and clap as another bolt of lightning pierces the clouds.

The lightening illuminates our plane. It looks worn out and tired. I shudder.

"Do you think it's safe to fly in this weather?" squeaks the woman in front of me.

"If it wasn't safe, they'd cancel the flight and send us home," the man behind me says.

The woman in front of me frowns at the rain hammering the windows. "Something's wrong about this flight." Instead of handing over her boarding pass, she steps out of line. "Call me a coward, but I'm not flying in this weather." She turns around to us. "Good luck!"