Today we welcome December with writing that takes place: in the airport.
Well, that was a nice, relaxing day. No need to write 2,000 words really opens up the day. Even if I did feel a little lost at a couple points.
This afternoon I finished up the interior window trim (with help from my lovely assistant Kat) and this evening Kat's dad and I got the bathroom another big step towards completion. So all that's left right now before we can move in: a good deal of painting, some sealing work in the bathroom, install new kitchen counter, and putting in the laminate flooring.
That sounds like a lot, but compared to where we started it feels like hardly anything to me.
The man stands staring blankly at the black and white television displaying departure and arrival times. His flight has been delayed, again. He is unsure if this is the sixth or seventh time, and even less sure if the number matters.
He needs a shower, a fresh change of clothes, some sleep. But he has access to none of those things. The airport is rustic, to be kind, and there are no showering facilities to be found. His luggage is being held captive by the airline, or the baggage handlers, or someone. It doesn't matter - whoever has it, that person isn't him. And sleep? He is on his own, with unscrupulous men all around (not least of whom is the security guard). Falling asleep means getting robbed, at best.
So he continues to stand, flies circling his head, cigarette smoke polluting his nostrils. He just wants to get home but is beginning to despair of ever seeing his front door again.
Then the power goes out in the entire building, casting everything and everyone into darkness, and the man's day somehow manages to get worse.