Arrivals
Written by Commius Rex
I own nothing, not a sausage. I'm just having some harmless fun.
She spies her second, smaller case and reaches across the woman standing next to her to snag it quickly. The woman makes an odd clucking sound and she smiles (but only in her head) cos now she knows she's really here. Cases stacked on her trolley, she's caught up in the stream of fellow-travellers heading out towards Arrivals. She wonders briefly whether, if she stopped walking, the crowd would press up behind her and sweep her along anyway. It's a nice thought, but it gives way quickly as she realises that the idea of a tide of tired, sweaty, irritable people pushing into her is, well, kinda gross.
She can see the people waiting now. They cluster behind those little barriers that act to extend the corridor out into the lounge. When she was little, they made her think of red carpets at glamorous events, and she'd make-believe that the throng of other people's friends and families were her adoring fans, desperate to catch her eye, be
favoured with her smile.
She sees him then, and it's like all the other people waiting fade into the background and she can see every detail of him in absolute clarity. He's wearing a suit of all things, and she sincerely hopes that he hasn't put it on specially just to come meet her, cos that'd just be, well, lame. At least it's not tweed.
He's as careworn as she remembers, and his hair is more like gray sprinkled with brown than the other way round these days. But he doesn't look tired and haggard the way he used to, and some of the lines on his face even suggest he might be smiling regularly. Well, semi-regularly.
He's searching the crowd, eyes sweeping this way and that. He hasn't seen her yet, and his eyebrows are just starting to draw together and down slightly, just the first suggestion of concern. It makes his forehead wrinkle, which makes him look old and stern.
Then he does see her, and he smiles, really smiles. Now she's certain he's happier, less stressed. Unhappy people can't put that much warmth into a smile. She ought to know, she's seen enough sad faces trying to look cheerful. Maybe depression makes some of those muscles that you use to smile waste away. Or maybe some of the ones you use to frown are permanently tensed.
Almost before she realises, she's face to face with him and he's wrapping his arms round her, slightly awkwardly. The best part of seven years in Southern California, and he still can't quite hug properly. She wonders if British parents ever hug their kids, or if little Rupert had to make do with firm handshakes from birth. She, on the other hand, is a hug expert. She's learnt from some of the best, so she's determined to show him how it's done, but then she thinks maybe he's getting a little
uncomfortable, so she releases him, and he unfolds from around her. Then they're just standing there grinning at each other, and she can't honestly remember the last time she saw him looking so happy.
"Giles!"
"Dawn, it's so wonderful to see you!"