Five Minutes

That’s all the time I have, all the time I can afford to wait.
My Sam Edelman booties click against the tile floor as I pace back and forth, waiting for him to arrive, to wish me goodbye.
In the past two hours, I have become very familiar with the sounds of the airport: shouts of kids running to and fro, robotic voices preaching gate changes over the intercom system every few minutes, golf carts racing past me carrying people. I have even become a pro at Flappy Bird, reaching a high score of 23.
Yet with all these distractions, I can only think of him.
Where is he?

Four Minutes

That’s all the time I have, the only time I have to reach her.
The doors of the plane finally open, the hiss starting the agonizingly slow process of exiting the plane. The aisle is instantly filled with passengers retrieving their overhead bags. I slam my head on the low ceiling in my rush to leave, only adding to the list of things going wrong. I check my belongings repeatedly and push my way into the flow of traffic, bouncing on the balls of my feet at every stop to the tempo of my time ticking by.
As I help a struggling elderly couple with their bags, I can’t help but think of her, no doubt twisting her engagement ring around her finger, worrying that I’ve forgotten her, that I’ve found more important things than her, that I’ve left her.
But I haven’t. Instead I’m stuck on this damn plane that was delayed for two and a half hours. Apparently all the signs and announcements were not enough to alert the high school drop out in aisle 25 that smoking was prohibited. Not only did he almost kill us all, but he took the precious time I had away. It was supposed to be me anticipating her, not the other way around.
But, of course, things can’t always go according to plan.
At last, I reach the door and sprint out to find her gate, C-17.

Three Minutes
That’s all the time I have, the last time I can spend on the ground.
They just called the last boarding zone. Any minute and they will say “last call” and I will have to leave. But I can’t leave. Not yet. He’s on his way. I know he is.
He promised.
A family rushes past me to the counter. The mother holds the pile of crumpled boarding passes and does a head count of her kids while the father leads them to the gate. As the kids bound down the path, the couple visibly relaxes, grasping each other's hands tightly, the perfect picture of union before they disappear around the corner. How I wish we were like that. Traveling together. Instead our work takes us to opposite sides of the world, one after the other. We try to make it work but it’s so hard. I want more time.
I want him.

Two Minutes
That’s all the time I have, the only time I have to navigate through this labyrinth.
My small black backpack bounces on my back as I run, and I momentarily consider my suspicious appearance but then I decide I don’t care.
I just need to get to her, to see her.
It doesn’t take very long for me to reach gate C-17, with a little over a minute to spare. But I don’t allow myself to rejoice yet. Something is wrong. The waiting area is too full for a plane that is supposed to leave in less than two minutes. I scan the crowd for her beautiful face, but nothing comes close to a match. I interrogate the lady at the counter about the flight to Paris.
She says it was relocated.
To gate A-3.

One Minute
I have no more time left.
They called for me personally, after I didn’t respond to the “last call”.
But he hasn’t come.
He said he would be here.
I creep slower than a wounded turtle to the counter and linger there, pretending to dig for my boarding pass. Instead, I’m scanning the room, hoping that he’s here and I just missed him.
He’s not.
I just wanted him to be here.
Was that so much to ask?
Maybe so.
I finally “find” my ticket and pass it to the attendant. She scans it and ushers me towards the door. I hesitate another second, hoping he’ll appear.

30 Seconds
That’s all the time I have, all the time I have to reach her. To say both hello and goodbye. To keep my promise.
It’s not enough. To be fair, I will never have enough time with her, but I need every second I can get.
I race against the clock to A-3, which just so happens to be on the complete opposite side of the airport. Lucky me.
But I don’t have time for sarcasm; I run.
I almost make it too, alternating between full out sprinting and hijacking golf carts for rides. But just as I reach gate A-3, the alarm on my wrist goes off, matching the slam of the giant metal door separating me from her.

Time’s up.