Terminal

by Shannon Weston

Maria works for a store that sells junk food and magazines. She’s been mopping the same spot on the floor for hours.

The airport was packed with travelers when I arrived. Parents with their toddlers on leashes, teenagers on their first solo flights nervously staring at their tickets, businessmen conducting conference calls from inside the glass privacy pods.

Most people boarded planes or clocked out after their shift and left. The place is empty except for myself and the Marias. The Maria that sells magazines, the Maria cleaning the women’s restroom in concourse C, the Maria polishing the desks by the gates.

The stores are still open. All of the gates are closed.

When I realize I’m alone–mostly alone–I live out my airport fantasies. I run down the horizontal escalators. I scream in empty terminals and listen for the echo. I steal a banana from one of the displays and flip off the sign that says they cost $3. The peel still winds up in a nearby trashcan, because I’m not a monster. Maria hasn’t stopped mopping the spot beneath the refrigerated goods, but she might eventually, and I don’t want to be rude.

I spent a while looking at the airport exit, but ultimately, I never leave. I could. Maybe. I still have options. Probably.

I still have a ticket.

There’s a minuscule movie theater in concourse B. I watch a short film about a rabbit who lost their foot. It’s the only movie that plays. I watch it three more times, accompanied by different airport snacks. Cheddar popcorn. Roasted peanuts. A yogurt parfait with orange marmalade.

Time continues, but doesn’t. I watch the clocks on the walls as they replay the same 8 minutes. I don’t know what’s so special about 3:31-3:39, but it must be special enough to keep me reliving the same seconds over and over.

I don’t know where I’m going. My ticket doesn’t list a gate.

I don’t know when my flight is, either. Every screen depicting departing and arriving flights show the same destination (HERE) with identical times (3:40).

Sometimes, the lights ripple, specifically between minute 3:37 and 3:38. You notice these things after you spend enough time staring at the ceiling.

At first, I walked to where the ripple was going, but there wasn’t anything there. A blank wall. A water fountain that doesn’t work.

But then, I follow the ripple the other direction. I weave through concourses and terminals until the lights pulse like they have their own sinus rhythm and the corridor is an artery. I thought I walked every inch of every terminal, but this one is different. It’s dim and sterile, it smells of cleaning products, and I can see a plane idling outside the windows.

Maria stands by the lone gate.

(And Maria, and Maria, and Maria.)

It’s open. They wait for my ticket.

A way out. I arrive here, I depart here.

I turn away from the gate.

Shannon Weston is based in Portland, Oregon. She has an upcoming ecohorror chapbook with Radical Bookshop titled “Sea Kelp / Seek Help.” When she isn’t writing, there’s a good chance she’s making up ridiculous nicknames for her rescue dog. You can keep up with her at @shanwestonwrites.bsky.social.