On Sunday I’m going to the airport. That word frustrates me. I remember what’s been happening at airports across the country in recent days. I’m angry. Sunday feels like a long time from now. I’m afraid of how I’ll feel on my way back home on the light rail. He’s not returning with me. He’s flying home, to Spain, to visit his family, whom he hasn’t seen in several years. These sentences make me uncomfortable. Airports are places of travel. I’m traveling in my mind. This way of speaking unnerves me because the words are in control, not me. I keep wondering: what’s wrong with me? He’ll be gone for seven days. He says six, but it’ll be seven. I’ll get more work done, or maybe I won’t edit anything. Loss comes to mind. I won’t lose him. He’ll visit his family for a week. A week is a long time. I’ll have more time for reading. I enjoy being alone. Maybe the airport reminds me of inner chaos. I’ve no idea where that thought comes from. Your mind can feel like a chaotic place, and that frightens you. This frightens me, not knowing how to interpret what you say. I can’t see you. And I’m afraid of what I see inside myself.