They sat, they saw…

They were at the airport. One of them was leaving, would be gone soon. Very soon. Too soon. One would stay behind. The other one. The one who could not, or did not want to, leave.

Nothing was said into the silence. Nothing was said, but nevertheless it was put there and stayed. It, unlike one of them, was going nowhere. That might have been the reason why at that moment it was clinging to every edge there, to everything, to all around. To the universe, it seemed. It, the unwords or lack of words, was forever. It was perhaps dead, but perhaps not so much. Not at all, some would say.

It was determined to stay forever, alive and growing. Green, bright, strong despite its age. It knew it would live. Silence is such an immense collection of the not-said and it never ever is wasted space. Instead, it often forms a steamy, scented pool that curls into nooks and crannies, dying while softens the skin, seeping into the ragged parts of our clothing to rest and look for what will help it remain green. Is that so hard to understand? (They needed no interpretation. They had long been close friends.)

Bags had been checked. They were ready to move away from the check-in counter. One waved slightly, but it was a gesture with no meaning, in that context.

There was still an hour before the flight. A very long hour that could have been two, it felt so long. An eternal hour that was an elastic band of indeterminate color mostly invisible. It stretched deliberately in first one direction, then in another. Elastic steel. It had earned its right to be there, and be there it would. It might be real, it might be imagined, but it was staying, and for that very reason it refused to apologize, didn’t need to. They weren’t certain whether they needed it or not, if it belonged to just one of them or both.

It didn’t seem worth discussing, because the hour was transparent, it was indeed heavy, it had no place else to be and thus was there with them. It seemed defiant at times, as if planned to abandon them and walk off to be with another couple in the same circumstances. They were reluctant to look around, because they didn’t want the minutes to find another place to settle into. That would make them orphans, forced into admitting what was really happening there.

It felt like walking on eggshells with the eggs still inside them, a promised sharpness, the slime of unpleasant moments, the remnants of hope that things could be undone. They knew not to attempt this, not to try to undo the world in a few caged minutes, inside the airport aquarium. They now had better plans.

There was time to be spent, to devour or some might say guzzle (a good word, to be honest). Solid time, like the bullet-proof, plane-proof high windows of the building. Conjure up an hour on the bank of a rivulet in Bertamiráns, whistle a song that belonged to the old cantareiras who had begun their comeback. Sounds of greetings, people in a place being and acting together in ways that gave wisdom to the world.

If only one of them didn’t hurt so much thinking about it. Effervescent metal circles spitting out rhythms, urging everyone to join in. No leaving allowed until every last note was dead. Notes like those never died, which was good. Only for one of the two, they did and her ears hurt, twinges running from the cartilage of the upper jaw along the curve of her mandible. Like vinegar, she was thinking, not seeing any salads nearby.

They moved in zigzag fashion toward one of two areas with stone cold table tops, and now had before them what looked like tasteless, boring brown liquid, hot in a white china cup. Except no, it turned out not to be boring at all. It was something else and was no monster, but was instead odd and beautiful, although beautiful might be too inaccurate a way to describe it, too mundane, too useless. The cups as they looked at the heavy whiteness, were strong and warm, their heavy, curved bellies grew slowly and knew they would stay forever. One of them resembled a miniature bottle of Rioja wine, but was just a mirage. Coffee is like that; it owns too many deceptive memories. The caffeine is really not relevant.

They sat with the cups, now cold and empty, except for a few drops of wine, and occasionally watched the runway, where nothing was happening except the drone of dragonflies announcing their arrival. Only that, and nothing more.

They were nodding slightly. They felt bored. Bored and anxious. Still, they moved their closer together, allowing ears and shoulders and necks to speak, tongues to forget all the past rolled up in them. She was staring as hard as her pupils would allow, afraid they would pop out and roll onto the floor, which would look very silly. That didn’t happen, but it could have.

They said next to nothing for the longest time. Maybe it measured like a watch, in minutes, but sixty was a lie; it was one hundred and sixty. It was also, on another plane, or in a field in Rodeiro, it was two thousand. Numbers meant nothing; they couldn’t be touched, had no texture, scent, or flavor. In the end, they merely are a method of fooling us, making us think we can be orderly in the world. The only thing that mattered at this point were the high windows that blocked birds from flying in and the bombs that had blown tongues to smithereens.

There was next to nothing to say, nothing to say with their two shattered tongues. They were too old to say anything anyway. They had already said it all, and it had left them weary.

One felt there was so much (potentially) to say, though, and had a tongue that was sore from biting the not saying. The blood had been swallowed, though, and movement in and out of the mouth had slowed down. It was both awkward and intimate, because nothing was new about all of it (except the second cafeteria and the actual name of the airport). Nothing was new, that is, except the leaning in of the shoulders, the craving for eternity, for a limbo of always, in this place of bottled time.

The other one was a closed book, always had been. Was this time going to be any different? Was it the last? Was either one considering that possibility? Were there any words for that possibility? No, wait, those things belonged to another time, and the shoulders had shown that indelible is forever.

Would it matter if the words were said or bitten to shreds? They had seen how things are altered with the flick of a sleeve or the murmur of a ventricle.

What was in the air between them? Everything. And it was going nowhere, despite the checked baggage and the seat assignment.