The Earliest Morning Airport

The fastest taxi driver sped through the earliest morning rain listening to the quietest FM radio play the Frenchest jazz chanteuse singing her brokenest heart out. Fastest, earliest, quietest, Frenchest, brokenest.

I arrived at the airport so early that I miss-read my boarding pass, just to kill time. Gate A 49 is not the same as Gate A 4 – 9, and although there were plenty of places to buy a cup of earliest morning Frenchest coffee in the Gate 4, subset 9 area, there was no Gate 4, subset 9. There were no places to buy coffee, Frenchest or otherwise, at Gate A 49, 50 or 51.

In the coffee-less under-construction wing of the earliest morning airport, Saint Germaine played softest moaning and groaning and all alone-ing downest-tempo beats. The newest toilets were motion-sensitive. The cleanest sinks were motion-insensitive. I washed my hands of them.

Gate 49 was not the quietest place to wait, not even in the earliest morning. An orange T-shirted green-tattooed not large but barrel-chest bleach-blond man paced, board of waiting to board. No one left baggage unattended. There were no suspicious packages to report. It was a domesticated flight.
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