I am not interested in talking to anyone when my flight finally arrives in Seattle at three a.m., five hours later than expected. I want only to smoke. The smoking section is empty except for an employee sweeping butts, a tiny speck of blue against the grainy concrete. My second cigarette tastes awful but I smoke it anyway, feeling my body twitch and vibrate. My ride is still a half-hour away when the sliding doors open and out sidles a man, all in black.
“Hi.” He lights a Marlboro Red with shaking hands.
My body will not move. Jesus where are you Laura? “Were you on the flight from Newark?”
“No. I had to leave my Mom’s house last night. Where’s Newark?”
“New Jersey.”
“You from there?”
“Yeah.” He nods, pulls a hand through his greasy hair. “I thought the water last night tasted funny. It cracked my lips, made my mouth dry. So I threw a bunch of stuff away and packed just my drawings and writings and came here.”
My twitch is involuntary. He leans back like he’s casually telling me about the weather but in his eyes I see a hot recognition that he has terrified me. “That must have been unsettling.”
“Yeah. I design ships and software for the government. Boeing jet planes, toothpaste. Wanna see some of my work?”
The sweep of the broom is close by but my body won’t turn to see just how close. He squats down among the rotting butts of cigarettes to unzip his duffel. I can see notebooks in there, twenty, maybe more.
“Do you wanna see these?” He pulls out a monstrous stack, his eyes flicking towards mine. “Or I’ve got these.” Another four appear. He roots around towards the back, whispering words that are lost in the swooshing broom. “Let’s see, then there’s these.” He looks at me for a sign of approval, but my mouth and eyes have turned to stone. “Or my design jobs?”
“It’s up to you. Whatever you want.”
This seems to please him and his hands shuffle them around. He opens one, flips through the pages. “Here, I’ve designed a new Toyota car.” I peer at a page. Please don’t let me be able to read the words. Maybe he can sense my doubt because the pages begin to turn quickly. “Where’s that design for the jet engine?” His finger rests on the top of a page. “Here’s one for a cancer cure.” More pages are flipped. “This one is for the toothpaste.” He says it more as a question, looking to me as if for some reassurance. I nod but he’s turned back to the notebook. If only my nod could calm my mind and his.
The broom swishes inches from my feet. My blood picks up its rhythm and the bench and the structure I sit under vibrate. It comes in again and this time I lift my legs, just in time. The handle narrowly misses smashing my legs. Maybe he’s meaning to sweep me up with the butts and ash. The frantic turning of pages has stopped; he is staring at the sweeper.
“Do you hate your job?”

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