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Something fungible

The airport reared out of the tarmac like a mullioned concrete and glass stallion.

He stared through the windscreen, fingers clenched on the wheel like snails sprinkled with salt. She wondered what lay behind his asperous facade. Capillaries and the exposed bones that are teeth – or something more? Something . . . fungible?

“Want to come in?” he asked.

“You mean park?” Her hangnail tasted like old, dry chewing gum. “What are the rates?”

“$6 an hour.”

“What a total rip-off. Ok.”

“Ok.”

The entrance to the covered parking opened wide like the gaping mouth of some great prehistoric beast with halitosis. She shivered in its dank embrace as a chill wracked her gorgeous, slender body.

After they parked, they walked towards Departures: travellers through time and space. Yet different times. And different space. A sob caught in her throat, like choking on a bitter peanut.

Inside the airport, outside the sweep of window, the sky was a patchwork of pure blue slivers stitched together with invisible stitches.

“Guess this is it,” he said. He checked his fly, a railway line of miniature sleepers down the front of his jeans. It was up not down which might have revealed a blooming flower of cotton.

“Guess so,” she said, her eyes fluttering like a moth captured in a glass.

“So long.”

And then he was gone, like the mist before dawn.

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