Vivian and the Colours of the Airport

Vivian decides to go to the airport. She arrives there with a packed suitcase and settles in a corner of the upper level coffee shop to watch arrivals and departures flicker in numerals. She sees that travelers are light and jaunty and move like they're hovering. She sees that some of their boxes even have pastel colours and flowers on them. Men in suits, however, drag black and gray boxes, whose mobility is confined to their shiny leather shoes. They're not travelers. Two green guards with machine guns stand by a door like an ugly smudge. They aren't travelers neither.

Vivian observes and ponders from this privileged spot, completely detached, with a mind like sputnik. A series of colours flash before her eyes: pink for Osaka, orange for Amsterdam, yellow for Stockholm, green for Johannesburg, and indigo for… hmm… Vancouver. Then the colours blur into a puddle like the water in which an artist dips his brushes, or the colour of coffee and cream, whirling and fermenting inside her. The aftertaste of indecision is heavy and nauseating.

"Would you like another cup?"

"Yes, please."

Never before has she finished a whole cup of coffee.