Join me in this suspenseful story that begins on a Sunday morning in a Spanish airport cafeteria, waiting for my gate to appear on screen for the plane to take me back to the arms of my dog. Sitting next to me are a few of the many I have observed, young people who have spent a romantic weekend in the city where I am, whose beauty lends itself to walks, photographs, padlocks on the river bridges, meals in the sun and kisses. nights. They sit down and he immediately looks cheerfully at his mobile and looks at the photos of unforgettable days full of passion and laughter. She also watches them from her mobile, but her comments are more descriptive “This is on the bridge”, “Here the light shone on my face”. The letter and number of my door start flashing on the screen, so I leave the couple there. And an hour passes and almost two. Someone, who has already experienced similar things, begins to sense that there is a mess beyond an air traffic jam and begins to prepare for hell to spend a few more hours there than expected. When I return to the bar where I had breakfast, I see at the same table the couple from before who, like me, had to cope with the delay. The table next to me is still free and I sit there to try to get back to the book I half had with me when I arrived and which I see myself coming to finish in that cafeteria. She talks, he listens, I notice my headphones are dead, and frankly, I’m glad I have an excuse to listen to them. He basically tells her it’s been a good weekend, that she had a good time, but that she doesn’t want to rush, that she prefers to go little by little. He returns feigning maturity and coolness, sentences full of assumptions and for naught, like someone caught in going too far with love to be, as I sensed, a first escape. The loudspeakers announce that the flight will not depart and the epic of visits to ticket counters to try and get another flight to take us back home begins. Between the lines, protests and surrenders, I spent a tense 12 hours here until I landed on another plane. If you’ve been through something similar, you know it’s an experience that makes that Spielberg movie with Tom Hanks a classic of psychological horror. I see them again in the queue of the taxis. I watch them each take one and, as they put their bags in their respective suitcases, look at each other tenderly but say goodbye with a kiss on the cheek. I get tired in my taxi, I feel sorry for them, suddenly I’m afraid that when I get home, my dog will politely offer me his paw instead of, as always, licking my face until I have to shower.
Source: La Verdad
I am George Kunkel, an author working for Today Times Live. I specialize in opinion pieces and cover stories that are both informative and thought-provoking – helping to shape public discourse on key issues. My work is regularly featured across the network’s many platforms, including print media and social media.
