(no subject)

[longflights]

The city was crowded, confusing, and not home. Pete yawned and thought, again, of Bronx, of Ashlee, thousand of miles away, and not....not here. The shows were good, he supposed, and his band had never been closer, but what he wouldn't give to call it off and spend the day watching his boy blow spit bubbles.

The yellow digital sign displayed that the train was fifteen minutes behind, and Pete figured he could've walked to the hotel by then, if he knew where the hell he was. All he knew was his tube stop (something about Knightsbridge) and he was good from there. And all he'd wanted to do was pick up this cute jacket for Bronx at Oxford Circus. His suitcase was going to be over the weight restrictions with all the shit he'd bought the two of them.

Twelve minutes. The platform became more crowded, this young girl standing next to him, chatting in a thick accent into a cellphone. An older couple stood to his left, hands entwined, not caring about the wait. He could call her now, but with the time difference it was still the middle of the night, and besides, it wasn't a conversation he wanted to have on a crowded platform of Brits during their morning commute.

So it would wait. Ten more minutes. Because he had something worth waiting for.