All the aching and oily bodies lounging and milling about the airport are just like a seething colony of roaches: undulating, expanding, and contracting. An obese woman holds a look of perpetual consternation as if nothing could satisfy her clearly discerning tastes for existing comfortably. She speaks to the medium weight man next to her with tattoos on either calf who taps on the bare skateboard decks propped up against the seat between his legs. They converse with the guarded impersonal airport body language that dictates looking across but never directly at ones communicative partner, and chuckling lightly at simple observations that are not really funny. Now I look up and the suited man in his mid-fifties looks away as he had been watching me just prior to my glancing up. I look down, then up again, catching him again. I don’t think I will catch him again, at least for a few minutes. It never smells bad, but it doesn’t smell nice either. The scents men wear are overt colognic exclamations, like a cover up for some foul character flaw that could only be squelched with pungent smells equal in repugnance to their brooding internal stench. All things are plastic here, except the shabby carpet and seat cushions that persons of a certain fetish would relish cramming their nose into with a deep inhale full of pleasure for all of the stale thinly clothed and covered asses that have compressed their scent into the already curdled cushion. The whole place could be sterilized and it would still somehow feel dirtier, in the same way that a hospitals white walls make you feel germy and sick. It’s as if the air is impregnated with festering bacteria and a deathly sickly haze. It’s soaks into your body into it fills your limbs and lungs, and soon it is emanating from you like little wavy brown waves of stench in a cartoon. The kind of filth only a green field and a good shower with pleasant smelling body wash can rinse out. The clothes are lost, though, they must be burned. A sweet relief, a shimmering ray of humanity sparks and penetrates through the puke green clouds in the room. An older man in a wheelchair holds his dignity and looks softly to the left with weathered but not bitter eyes. The airport attendance sort if barks out some half-heartfelt diatribe on latrine locations and boarding procedure. A whisper of confirmation wisps from his lips without derision or amusement. When she speaks he tilts his head to lift his full face to her words; lion-like. He were a straw hat.