shuless meaux

She’s got her shoes off, sunglasses pushed up, cell phone pressed to her ear. “You had the x-rays, right?” she asks, shifting her feet, then: “Exactly. Are you working, still?” She listens, now, tapping her bare feet on the concourse rug, a mottled green, matching the airline’s curious choice of décor. “Correctly,” she reports, scratching her foot. “I like that.” No smile. Her mouth’s a straight line. She slides her feet into her shoes, then out again. She nods, now. “I like that, too. How did the brunch go?” Across the way, the flight from Las Vegas arrives, led by a striking blonde in sequinned jeans, followed by a tall guy in a black “Titleist” hat. He purses his lips. “Anyway, strange, strange,” she says. “I don’t know if I’ll have the energy to go Sunday. I’ll call Murray, tomorrow. At least it’s not Saturday.” She says, “Talk to you soon,” then closes the call. Her mouth’s still a straight line. Come to think of it, it never changed. Her shoes are on, now, in case you wondered, heels pushed down. She’s thinking about her favorite show – “The Biggest Loser.” Her second favorite is "The Colbert Report," but only because she thinks he's being serious.