The Waiting Lot

The airport waiting lot was a gravel patch under a sky the color of wet cement. Rain tapped out an unsteady rhythm on the roof of Liam’s beat-up sedan, making the world outside look blurry and inconclusive, which felt appropriate.

Maya was perched on the passenger seat, not really sitting, but suspended, halfway between the leather and the future. Her carry-on bag, a garishly purple monstrosity she’d named ‘The Monster,’ sat importantly between her feet.

​“Are you sure you have enough charge on your earbuds for the first leg?” Liam asked, his voice overly focused on the mechanics. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at his phone, which had been registering 100% battery for the last twelve minutes.

​“I’m sure. I checked them twice while you were explaining the complexities of the automated car wash last night.”

​“Right. Good. Just checking. You know how those transatlantic flights can be. Fifty hours of high-altitude humming and you suddenly realize you’ve memorized the safety manual.”

​Maya leaned over and playfully tapped the phone screen he was obsessing over. “And you know how I am with chargers. I’m pathologically prepared. It’s what makes us work, right?”

​He finally looked at her, and the light filtering in from the sickly-yellow street lamp made the worry lines around his eyes look deeper than they should have. The lighthearted shield they’d both been holding slipped, just for a second. That was the raw part—the quiet acknowledgement that they were dismantling the daily rhythm of their shared lives.

​“Listen,” he started, running a hand over his knee and thigh. Maya interrupted quickly, “About the apartment—you know how the sink drips that annoying, high-pitched tink?”

​Liam breathes in. “The one that sounds like a tiny, aggressive metronome? Yes.”

​“I put a dishcloth under it. But if it overflows and ruins the subfloor, just let it. It’ll make a hilarious story when you call.”

​Liam's smile finally felt real again. “Duly noted. Passive-aggressive water damage is acceptable for comedic value.”

​She reached down to The Monster, running her thumb over the zipper. The silence returned, thicker this time, heavy with unspoken questions about distance and time zones and what happens when two people live entirely separate existences for a period measured in seasons, not days.

​“Remember that time in Florence?” Maya asked suddenly, injecting a burst of unrelated warmth into the cold car air. “When we were trying to buy those knock-off leather jackets and we ended up paying the vendor in Euros, dollars, and half a pack of chewing gum?”

​Liam barked a sudden laugh, sharp and genuine. “And he accepted the gum! He looked absolutely thrilled with the gum! It was spearmint!”

​“Spearmint is international currency, clearly.” She paused, the energy settled. She pulled a small, silver pin from her lapel. It was from the first small concert they went to together, merchandise from the headlining band Seize The Moment.

​“Here,” she said, pressing it into his hand. It was surprisingly cold in his palm. “Wear this on your shirt pocket, right over your heart. If you ever feel like forgetting me, it’s going to administer a tiny, static shock, like a baby defibrillator. It’s purely psychological, I think.”

​He stared at the small pin in his palm, then carefully pinned it onto his denim jacket. “I won’t take it off. I promise I’ll keep the shocks coming.”

​She took a deep breath, looking past him to the distant, chaotic glow of the airport terminal. “Okay. It's time. I think that's my bus.” A mid-sized airport shuttle was pulling up to the waiting lot to take Maya directly to her terminal.

​Liam reached out and gently cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair for just a moment. He didn't speak. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his forehead against hers—a small, firm connection, transferring every unsaid thought and hope.

​When he pulled back, he gave her the exact same goofy, lopsided grin he used when he was about to do something utterly reckless, like eat four chili dogs in a row.

​“See you when the moss turns blue, you magnificent weirdo,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

​“And you, my love, keep the spearmint fresh,” Maya replied, her voice steady.

​She opened the car door. The rain intensified instantly, a brief, dramatic shower accompanying her departure. She hefted the Monster onto her shoulder, closed the car door, and walked quickly toward the shuttle, not looking back.

​Liam watched her go, waited until she had completely vanished inside the bright, cavernous mouth of the shuttle, and only then did he allow himself to breathe again, the small metallic pin glimmering slightly under the yellow street lamp as his chest rose. His hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, right at ten and two, his eyes fixed on the large airport terminal in the distance, but his gaze was much further past the building. Minutes passed before he realized another car had pulled into the lot next to him, a lone woman in the driver seat, perhaps waiting for a loved one's flight to come in. She looked eager, excited. ​Liam didn't move the car, not yet. The sudden vacuum where Maya had been was a physical thing, an absence that made the sedan feel vast and echoey. Empty. He could still smell her light, citrusy perfume mingling with the damp metallic outside air, a ghost scent that promised a return but offered no timeline. The small, silver pin on his jacket pocket felt cold as he fingers along the edges, a tiny, constant reminder of the psychological static shock she had promised. He turned the key to the on position, not to start the engine, but to turn off the headlights, plunging the interior into a deeper, more private gloom. The other car next to him drove off, its tires crunching the gravel, emphasizing his own sudden, absolute stillness. He put his forehead against the cold steering wheel, closing his eyes, suddenly hearing the aggressive, tiny tink-tink-tink of the kitchen sink, a sound that, for the first time, did not annoy him—it was simply proof that a home was still there, waiting, even if the one person who made it worth hearing the sound was now accelerating toward the sky. The season of waiting had begun. He fully started the car, the roar of the engine breaking the silence and announcing the unwelcome start of his solitary journey. He shifted the car into drive, turning his vehicle and his attention toward the long, empty road ahead.