baudot

It is 3AM. My flight landed an hour ago. The trains will run again and carry me home in another few hours. Now I sit in the quiet of the International Terminal after hours. I am stuffing roast almonds into dried apricots. One nip takes the end off the apricot, then the almonds slip inside easily enough. Their crunch brings out the sweetness of the dried fruit.

I sit among the well-dressed-homeless dozing on the benches between flights. They are curled over onto armrests or lay their heads back against the airport pillars. A few sit awake still, plugged in to power and whiling away the night on laptops.

The second game convention of the year is past. My patter to explaining the game is polished; worn in. I know the spots folks are likely to chuckle, or question. After days of speaking over crowds, this lthree-to-five-minute routine is something I can slip into and stay confident within. The same way a businessman armors himself in a suit, or a photographer keeps his camera between himself and the world, this well-worn performance has become a shield against the awkwardness of dealing ith hundreds of strangers daily.

The sun will be up in another hour or two. Best to see if I can wring anymore comfort out of the terminal's benches than my neighbors have.