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"Oh, son of a bitch."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just thinking.
"'Bout what?"
"Stuff." Jack O'Brien pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans, lightly jingling the set of keys inside. He kept these with him at all times, regardless. It was habitual, and the prospect of being locked out frightened him.
"Well, stop thinking about whatever you're thinking…about…then." Conor Ohster, his best friend, was looking at him with an expression half pitying, half confused. "You have problems, man."
"Thanks for the heads up," Jack replied sarcastically. A sudden noise caused his head to snap to the left as a Cessna 172 roared down the runway, shuddered, and became airborne, its wings waggling gently as the wind toyed with the small plane.
"Remind me why we're here?"
"Don't get all deep on me. Philosophy scares the living hell out of me." Conor looked surprised.
"What are you talking about? You're philosophical. You're like a girl."
"Bullshit, man. I'm just observant," Jack insisted. "I like lookin' at the world. It's an interesting place." Conor looked at him for a few seconds, then sighed and pushed off the wall and started walking towards the small airport's main building.
"Sometime I worry about you. Got too much on your mind," said Conor, frowning. "Don't you ever get a headache?"
"'Course. But there's just that much to think about. I don't mind," replied Jack as though it was the most obvious thing in the universe.