The airport’s hand soap had only been used to scrub my hands and forearms, just below the elbows, but its cloying scent lingered as if I had bathed in it. I had felt infected by it for so long that I was beginning to feel as if I’d swallowed some due to the thick, inescapable dryness that engulfed my mouth from back to front, though I knew that was due to my regular concert attendance in spite of my recurring throat ailments. I sat upright in the airport chair with stiff, restricting armrests framing my hips while I vaguely considered how many times I had received a tonsillitis diagnosis, but it was not enough to spark genuine curiosity. I rotated glances between my blank phone screen, the roach that skittered across the thinned carpet on the ground, and occasionally, the back of my best friend’s head.

The darkness of the terminal blanketed us both, but they felt only they deserved the privilege of sleep. There was one armless bench at gate A24 and they had claimed it rather quickly. They had their back to me, choosing to face a wall of windows overlooking the stilled runway. I consciously felt the layer of aged sweat clinging beneath my clean, white tour shirt. The only sound in the airport was their wispy breaths and my stomach’s faint rumble. Dinner consisted of two-thirds of a bottle of room-temperature vending machine chocolate milk, as it was my only option by the time we made it to the airport. I figured the milk and I were about the same temperature by that point in the night, with my latest sunburn and its lack of refrigeration evening us out. It could’ve been thrown out, honestly. There were only a few sips left and it was hours-old, but I was hoping the roach might wander into the plastic if I left it on the floor at my ankle.

My eyes followed the bug. It wandered into every obstacle it could, like a bumper car bouncing off of walls, but it had not yet made its way to me. I kept my earbuds in, to steer away anyone who might approach, but no one did. It was 3:26 a.m. in Atlanta so it was 4:26 back at home, and nobody was willingly awake at that hour. I wasn’t willingly awake at that hour. I was awake because the gate's lone bench was occupied by someone who wouldn’t give it up. I figured they’d sleep through the entire night so they wouldn’t have to risk seeing any more of me than they had to.

Twenty-two hours prior, when we had boarded the plane from DFW to Jackson-Hartsfield, we felt like the best of friends. The kind of bond that had survived middle school rumors and bad prom groups and horrible hangovers, and I used to think any adventure was worth it for live music. It always had been, so we planned a single day trip together, packing only the essentials—a portable charger, a bag of drugstore makeup, the last of my antibiotics, a travel toothbrush, toothpaste, denim shorts, a belt, and a small pouch of crystals my coworker had insisted would “help.” I hadn’t been so sure a sack of tumbled stones would do me much good, but the lack of faith had not been enough to deter me from sticking them in the transparent backpack.

I could see the rocks through the plastic of the bag. I watched them next, as if they’d scurry too. Part of me wished I believed they were powerful in some way. Perhaps then, they could be to blame for the moment I was stuck in. It could've been their fault my skin was prickled and pink, or that the vending machine only carried the off-brand milk, or that I hadn't held a proper conversation since the first flight early that morning. Maybe the rocks had flipped some invisible switch, maybe that’s what triggered my friend's urgent need to reroute our planned day, maybe that’s why they called their mom to have her yell at me through a screen after the show. Maybe the rocks kickstarted the blow-out scene we caused, maybe the energy of some lousy stones intervened enough to piss my friend off in a way they couldn’t articulate. It could’ve been the rocks that decided there wouldn’t be two benches at that gate, maybe they manifested some kind of shift in reality where we couldn’t get along for the first time in our lives, maybe that’s why the day had been so off from the moment we started. Something else could have been the initiating factor. The city, the airport. The plane itself. Maybe my panic attack in the bathroom stall was motivated by some inhuman outside source of energy. Maybe it wasn’t the sight of their peaceful sleep that instilled discomfort in my gut. Hell, there were other variables in our day. Something else entirely could have been to blame. And it should have been, because it should have been impossible for an emotion so deeply rooted in anger to be provoked by someone I chose to be around for so long.

I wished the dissatisfaction settling in my gut had been sparked by something else. I wished the concert sucked, or the flight got canceled, or something inevitable had shriveled the goodness for us. 

I wished that wouldn’t be the last day I ever introduced them as my best friend. 

Wishing hardly gets you anywhere, it rarely earns you anything, but the roach wandered closer. It tapped into the toe of my shoe, I shook my foot to knock it off, it skittered out of sight. The bottle of milk remained unfinished and untouched by the disinterested bug when I finally got up and threw it out.

Drew Payne has a BA in Creative Writing with a minor in journalism from the University of North Texas, where she still resides. Her fiction has been published in Apricity Magazine.