Short Stop: The Airport Bar at 6:47 a.m.

L.C. Hill

7 a.m. is too early to get served alcohol at the airport. I order a drink at 6:47 and wait.

I rip a piece of bacon off the strip in my hand. The man across the bar watches me. He does not drop his eyes. I drop mine. I’m bored with men who won’t give me a moment’s peace just because I’m alone at the bar.

The hot sauce swirls with the eggs’ runny yolks, and I stab a potato with my fork. Another man watches me. A woman sits next to him. He says something to her, but she doesn’t look away from the TV. The corner of her mouth barely even twitches at whatever it is he’s said. It seems she’s bored with men who won’t give me a moment’s peace, too.

The bar is relatively empty. A man chooses a bar stool right next to mine. There’s an empty chair on the other side of him, but still he hits my bar stool with his when he pulls it out. He doesn’t apologize. I resist the urge to accommodate his audacity. It’s ingrained, after all—his audacity and my urge to accommodate it.

I turn my back to him and tear off another piece of bacon. Not daintily but with my teeth.