At the Airport

I am trying to outline my emotional needs for a quiet boy who has yet to touch me. He is overwrought and wears red shorts. His English is getting there. I am in an airport on my way to where he is and when we get there, I will teach him how to fuck me. From the silence of our bed, I’ll watch him put his red shorts on in the morning, and smile. I will be able to hear him saying: I would climb Mount Everest everyday if you were waiting at the top.

I am on my way to where he is, and everyone looks at me, blushing. I am beautiful at the airport because I wait patiently and order only three drinks. And now, I’m at the airport waiting for something to sweep me off my feet. Red polish chips from my fingers and I am overweight. Perched on a stool which does not break, I call myself Horton, and care too much what the bartender thinks.

I have a scarf on even though I’m too hot. I drink Manhattans with Booker’s and look down to write this. I cannot find peace of mind. I’m imagining explicit things about the bartender, and the overwrought boy who chats me online. I’m getting very drunk. I have a short, red dress. I am woeful. I have full, red lips. I am woeful. I have dark, sleepy eyes. Like a stiff drink, I am adaptable. I’m at an airport, on my way.


MICA EVANS is a Bennington College graduate, poet, and musician based in Chicago.