Willkommen.
You've been in the same position before: at the airport, fidgeting in the car seat, glancing up and out every once in a while to see if a glimpse of that familiar face you hadn't seen so in so long would already be there, half-hidden behind a cart stacked with luggage and boxes haphazardly duct-taped to within an inch of its life. Before it had just been the old airport, where you had to stand under whatever letter your last name began with. At Centennial Terminal 2, there's no such thing, just a terminal that seems to stretch on forever. At nearly 7:30 AM, the pinks and grays of dawn have tinged the sides of it colorful, making people rosy-cheeked in the light. You aren't sure how long you've waited. Ten, maybe twenty, minutes. The cab driver is impatiently tapping the sides of the steering wheel with his finger. Tap. Tap. Tap. Cracked leather against callous skin. It's too early in the morning to be scolded by airport security, and he isn't in the mood.
Thirty minutes. He still isn't out.
The taxi driver complains. You concede. You wave a few hundred peso bills in his direction and he's more than happy to drive away.
Thirty-three minutes. You're getting hungry. There's a problem with his luggage. Okay.
Thirty-six minutes. His luggage might have been left at Los Angeles. All the presents are inside.
Forty-four minutes. He says he's coming up.
You give him some leeway. He's never been the fastest person on the planet but
(Your heart is impatient)
give him the benefit of the doubt and head to where you're supposed to meet. The airport seems to stretch even further, a cage of metal and glass, more restriction than freedom.
(Where is he, where is he, where...)
He's bigger, broader, like a brick wall. His hair's that strange color of fall again, like an aged brick, and his face is a strange tan. (LA has weird sunlight, he says later. It turns you into a lobster, you say, and he nods). He'd been talking with the guard when you start to approach him but pauses the second he sees you walking, jogging
(running)
over.
Suddenly, metal, glass and light melt away and you're body to body. He smells of a stale airplane cabin and is warm against your arms, your chin, the palm of your hands. He's lamenting about lost luggage and you have to throw back your head and laugh because it is just so typical. He smiles at you after, holds his stare over your face, cups your chin. You had imagined maybe jumping into his arms and being twirled around like a cheesy Taylor Swift video, but the guard is still watching you both. You don't mind though.
"Don't I get a kiss?" he asks, pretending to look hurt. You make sure the guard is no longer looking when you lean over and peck him lightly. A part of his unshaven chin scratches you, but you go back for a second one. You play with his hair with the tips of your fingers, and he returns your affections by pulling you closer, making you burrow your face into the soft whites of his T-shirt, inhaling every scent coming off of him (Dolce cologne, laundry, leather, cigarettes smoke), memorizing every nook and cranny that you'd missed the past two months.
You still fit surprisingly well in his arms.
"Let's go home," he says.
(You'd been home the second you saw him.)