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The chair had looked deceptively well-cushioned when he had sat down. He had been waiting for over an hour, and despite the chatter and bustle around him, despite the frequent blast of sultry, heavy air that invaded the air-conditioned hall every time the door whirred open, despite the infernally hard chair – despite it all, he found himself dozing. He occasionally jerked awake, sure that someone had called him, and he would look around, but the person he was waiting for would not be there. He would train his eyes on the double doors and the shifting crowds lining the barriers once again, until his eyes grew heavy and his head would start to sink forward once again…

He walked through the double doors. Sweaty, hot, greasy, tired. He wanted a cigarette and a cold drink, and to put down the heavy bag he had just collected. He scanned the crowd waiting outside the doors, looking for a familiar shock of white hair, but could not find the person he was looking for. He moved slowly through the hall, the shapeless mass of people clumping into groups as he passed, and found himself at the exit, still alone. Was the person even here? He should go back and look again, but just outside was the smoking area. His mouth was dry. He made up his mind and stepped forward, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes…

He dreams, although he does not know it. It is hard to tell the difference, these days. In his dreams, he meets the person he is waiting for again and again; he lives his life again and again and again; he dreams of possibilities that might have been and could have been, and cannot tell the difference when he dreams of reality, of what had happened. Reality. Hah. It’s a thin substance, and it seems thinner and more frayed by the moment. The people and voices around him – are they real? The story in the news – the plane shot down, the lives ended – is that real? He supposes it is, so why can’t the dreams he dreams be real too? They feel more real, and they feel more plausible. If looped repetition can make something real, then they should be real by now. The hand gently shaking his shoulder – is that real?

He has smoked his cigarette. The air outside has a suffocating weight. It is pregnant with moisture that it cannot release. It is choking and turgid, and offers surly resistance to anything trying to move it, or move through it. It is even worse in the tiny room where dishevelled tavellers suck desperately and miserably on their cigarettes, filling the space with white smoke that swirls lazily before sinking to the floor, unable to bear the weight of the air. He finished his cigarette as quickly as he could, then trudged out, feeling better and worse. Stepping back into the conditioned, chilly hall makes his head swim and the room spin. The crowd still swirls and eddies, making endless new patterns. A shift in position, and he sees the white haired man dozing on a seat. He smiles, and walks to him, and gently shakes his shoulder to wake him…

They sit in a restaurant. It is quiet after the bustle of the hall. They are waiting for their orders to arrive. Words fill the air between them, a stream of ideas and thoughts and feelings that have also been waiting. It is just the two of them sitting at the table. Or is it? Surrounding them are the flickering images of other people: dreams come to life, the people they carry with them, even when they are alone. Especially when they are alone.

Has he found who he was looking for? Has the person he was waiting for arrived?