I walk up to the agent at the gate, hands in my pockets. “Excuse me,” I say, and she smiles brightly at me, “can you tell me if this is my gate?”

Her smile doesn’t waver, but it does crease at the edges. “Of course,” she says brightly. “Where are you going?”

“Atlanta.”

The agent looks above her head to the screen, and my eyes follow. “Well,” she says with a tad of uncertainty, “that’s not what this gate sign says, clearly. You must be at the wrong gate.”

“Ah,” I reply, as if I know that. “Of course. My mistake. Could you tell me where I need to go, then, in order to find the flight to Atlanta?”

The agent turns back to her computer. “Do you have a boarding pass?”

“Not with me.”

“It’s not on your phone?”

I have the urge to pat my pockets even though my hands are already in them. Where is my phone?

“It’s printed out,” I explain. “But I left it with my friend, and I can’t find him either.”

The agent starts to let her exasperation show. “Do you have a flight number? A departure time? There are at least five flights to Atlanta in the next couple hours. Are you sure your flight isn’t to Dallas?”

I shake my head. 

“Then I can’t help you. Why don’t you try the service desk in terminal five?”

“Where is that?”

But the agent has already turned back to her computer, and a line has formed behind me. I look up at the screen again, trying to make sense of the letters and words I know are there. Then I start walking again.

The airport is pleasant, if a little bit old. Unassuming blue carpet lines the gates and waiting areas, and sweeping windows let in plenty of natural light. Every time I look out, I get the sense of airplanes moving along the jetway and a sun, somewhere. As I walk, I pass shops selling magazines and candy and water, overused restaurants with the menus out front on little stands, and bars. On every corner there is a bar with tiny stools with slumped over men and women sipping and staring at their phones.

Where is my phone? Where is my friend?

I pat my pockets again; still empty. I’m now trying to find terminal five, but the signs pass me by, and when I try to read them it’s like making sense of swirls of water.

I arrive at a food court, and the low ceilings sweep up into an arch like a cathedral. A bird crouches on a beam near the top and ruffles its feathers. Pigeon. That’s what it is. Those exposed beams have been out of style for a while now, with huge brass fixtures and the impersonal quality of steel. The space is nice though; knowing there’s room above me makes the airport feel less like a tunnel and more like… well, a cathedral, though it’s been who knows how many years since I’ve stepped inside one. 

I look around the food court for my friend. There’s a vague sense of urgency, but it’s not pressing. When does our flight leave? It has to be soon. Within two hours at least. I’m not in trouble yet, but I should find the gate. He’ll know what gate we are. 

I don’t see him in the scattered crowd of people, eating off aluminum tables with paper baskets of fried food. That’s the thing about airports—no matter where I am, it will always smell like fried food. I take a lap of the court. No, he isn’t anywhere. There’s a fountain in the middle, an actual fountain, and it gurgles along pleasantly. I have the sensation of being young again, and traveling with my family, and begging for coins to toss. Watching them sink slowly to the bottom, wavering to either side before coming to a stop.

I join a line for a restaurant, hands in my pockets. Why did I leave my phone with my friend? I miss it vaguely, like car keys, or a boarding pass.

This place sells pizza, or something, and when I get to the front of the line the worker greets me and says something about specials. 

“Excuse me,” I say, “have you seen my friend around here?”

The worker doesn’t break his smile. “What does your friend look like?”

I consider for a moment. “He’s about my height,” I say. “I think he’s wearing red. Or maybe white. But he’s carrying my phone and boarding pass, and we’re supposed to be flying to Atlanta soon. Or Dallas. I need to find him.”

The worker scratches his head. “Does he have long hair?” He asks.

I have to think about it. “I don’t think so.”

The worker shrugs. “Then I can’t help you. I haven’t seen a guy in red, or white, with a phone. We get a lot of people through here, though. Why don’t you try the sushi place in terminal five?”

“Where’s that?” I ask.

“Hey, if you’re not going to order something, then get out of line,” the person behind me snaps. The worker meets my eye and shrugs again. I leave and start walking.

The ceilings lower again as I leave the food court, and the terminal curves around in a half-circle. I’m thinking about my friend, and I decide that I must have gone to the bathroom and given him my phone and boarding pass to hold on to. A woman with a child passes me, the child riding on a wheeled suitcase. I must have given him my luggage to watch as well.

I feel vaguely odd, walking around the airport, holding nothing. But I’m not worried yet. Urgency presses faintly, and I’m sure that I have a few hours before my flight leaves. I just need to find the right gate. And my friend. I stop at a monitor, craning my neck to make sense of all the rows of flights leaving and arriving, departing and coming in. Again, the words swirl, currents in water making eddies and rapids and dipping holes. I try to read for a while, but eventually give up. My friend will be able to tell me where our gate is. I just have to find him. 

I pass by a bar, and then another. Vaguely themed, playing music, the usual line up of men and women on the narrow stools. A janitor walks by, towing a recycling bin.

“Excuse me,” I ask. “Do you know where I could find terminal five?”

The janitor glances back at the recycling bin. “Do I look like I know where terminal five is?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, do I—”

“Oh, right, I was just wondering. It’s supposed to have something I need there…I think. I’m looking for my friend. We have a flight to Atlanta. Or Dallas, I’m not sure.”

“You aren’t sure of much, are you? Well, you should ask her.”

I follow the pointed finger and see a bartender serving drinks across the hallway. When I turn back, the janitor is gone, the clicking of the recycling bin’s wheels the only indication that the conversation happened at all.

Well. I walk across the hallway, dodging people moving briskly along wheeling carry-ons, swinging bags and stiff backpacks, holding duffel bags and pet carriers and take-out containers. I feel naked again, but not distressingly so. I wonder where my suitcase is. I pat my pockets.

I walk up to the bar and pick a stool. It’s not quite big enough for me, and I have to think about balancing so I don’t fall off. It’s not very relaxing, but drinking in an airport rarely is.

The bartender gives me a nod to let me know she’s seen me, and I watch her mix a complicated-looking blue drink, pour it in a thin glass, top it with an umbrella, and slide it over to a tired sort of man in plaid.

She comes over to me. “What can I get you?”

The bartender is one of those women who could be anywhere from thirty to fifty, with faint crow’s feet and sun spots along her cheeks. She’s got long, curly hair tied back in a ponytail, but some strands are creeping out. Silver studs are all over her ears. She’s got a red apron on, and red nails, and all the red brings out the warmth in her brown eyes. When I look again, I see I was mistaken. Her eyes are green, like my mother’s. She blinks slowly, and I realize her hair is the exact shade of my daughter’s. It’s jarring, but in the way that opening a door and seeing someone you recognize is jarring.

“Anything look good?” She prompts me, blinking slowly, like she’s got all the time there is.

“Yes, sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Well, no, actually. I’m not here for a drink.”

“Most people aren’t, not at first,” she says, rinsing out a glass. The movement is precise, defined, and I can’t look away.

“I know,” I say, sounding a little silly. 

“Would you like something to eat?”

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs, and wipes down the bar. A woman a couple seats down raises her hand, and the bartender nods, but doesn’t walk away. She leans on her elbows, letting some of her hair fall into her face. 

“Then what can I help you with?” She asks. She smells like lemon but not like gin. I’m reminded of the librarian in my hometown. She actually has the same glasses—how didn’t I notice? He wore them every day, square-shaped and small. I wonder how she ended up with the same ones.

“I can’t find my library—I mean, my gate,” I explain. “I’m supposed to be flying to Dallas—or Atlanta—with a friend. He has my boarding pass and luggage. Have you seen him?”

She asks for a description, and I think he’s wearing red. Like her apron. I’m not sure. She doesn’t seem worried that I can’t find him.

“People come through here all the time,” she assures me. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“Do you know where terminal five is?”

At this, the bartender looks at me over her glasses. The way she purses her lips reminds me of how my father would act when I asked a difficult question. Later, when I had my own children, I understood what he thought—how do I explain this?

“I know where terminal five is,” she says. A beer is in her hand, and she slides it down to the woman at the far end of the bar without spilling a drop. “Are you sure you want to find terminal five?”

“Yes,” I reply, though I can’t quite remember what is actually in terminal five. Maybe my friend. Maybe my phone and boarding pass. I pat my pockets. 

“Alright then.” She puts down an empty glass in front of me and points to the right. “Keep going on down that way and follow the signs. It’ll be past the bathrooms. If you hit gate twenty-nine you’ve gone too far.”

“Thank you,” I reply, even though I haven’t told her I can’t read the signs. She speaks with such confidence that surely, I will find it. That’s the only thing that makes sense. I get up and leave.

“Hey!” She calls after me, leaning over the bar. Her silhouette is striking; there’s something in the way her head tilts, or maybe it’s her waving hand, because for a moment I think I see my cousin. But that’s impossible. My cousin died ten years ago. And yet in that moment a familiar, friendly grief grips me, and I waver. 

“There’s no rush,” she insists. “If you don’t want to go into terminal five, you can just find me back here!”

My throat is too full to answer, so I just wave back.

By the time I’m part way down the terminal again, passing gate after gate, the numbers indistinguishable from each other, I don’t know if I’ve passed the bathrooms or not. The memory of the bartender is hazy. What color apron had she been wearing? What had she said about terminal five? Even the grief I’d felt, only briefly, that outline of loss, is vague and shadowy. 

I need to find my friend. He can’t carry both our luggage for long. We have to get to Atlanta. Our flight probably leaves in a couple hours, but I’m not sure when, because my friend has my boarding pass, and my phone. I see a gate agent up ahead, and he’s got brown hair and a pleasant smile.

I approach the counter. I pat my pockets.

***

Emma McCoy (B.A. Literature) is a poet and author trying her very best. She is the Associate Editor of Last Syllable and a poetry reader for Whale Road Review and Minison Project. She has two poetry books, the forthcoming This Voice Has an Echo (2024) and In Case I Live Forever (2022), as well as a nomination for Best of the Net 2023. Catch her on Twitter: @poetrybyemma