When we landed, the sun was an orange lip on the horizon. Now it is gone. We rode twenty minutes over runways, past blinking lights and descending planes.
The pilot comes on the loudspeaker. His tone is that of a remorseful philanderer. He informs us that we have another twenty minutes before we can deplane.
The man seated next to me is traveling to his father's funeral. He lives in Ohio. His wife and children sit in the next row.
The funeral home director refers to his father's ashes as "crème," not ashes, he says.
I find that kind of funny, he says.