Actually, Not Love

I don’t know these people. Never met them. But as “friends of friends” things go on social media, you stumble upon stunning photography, exotic travel locations, professionally plated meals, and flowers—copious amounts of flowers. When the inevitable, though not fully intended, exposure hits, it somehow makes its way into one of the bottom drawers of my, sadly, photographic memory. It’s meaningless to me, yet it takes up space. It’s an ice-storm night, and we landed through “moderate turbulence,” so uneventful that the stingy airline actually served us free booze. Happy to be alive alongside my family, in a mercifully short Nexus line, I feel the strife of a young couple at the machine next to me. He’s doing something wrong, repeatedly. She’s whiny but offers no solution. I tap my card, take a bleary photo of myself—I should probably start wearing makeup when flying—but the machine doesn’t seem to mind, promptly spitting out my receipt. With a flash of green, the little clear plastic gate opens and gets me closer to my bed, or so I think. It’s an ungodly hour already, and I don’t know yet that it will take over eighty minutes for the one suitcase we have to arrive. So time I have for people-watching. I love airports.

It’s between Christmas and New Year’s. With a faint smile, I guess who’s family, who’s friends, who’s lovers. Who’s retired, who’s dreading going back to work, who’s starving (me!), whose luggage—with a sexy sequin dress—will arrive only on January 2nd. I spot the Nexus couple high on the escalator. He’s holding two carry-ons. She’s a step below, but twisted 180 degrees, facing him, still whining, only louder. He’s quiet, looking down—not at her, but at his feet. She struts off the escalator, fast. He drags his step, seeming old, still looking at his feet. Defeated. She turns back toward him, and I hope to see something tender—a smile, perhaps a hug. After all, they also survived a turbulent landing. I’m a sucker for happy endings. Without a word, she comes close and yanks the receipt out of his hand, still carrying her luggage, and walks away. He never lifts his gaze. There wouldn’t have been a story, perhaps, if somewhere in the initial silence of our ride back home, or later, once our driver decided to share, with enthusiasm, why we must get the exact hybrid Lexus (he hasn’t purchased gas since June!), my ridiculously busy brain hadn’t opened that bottom drawer, pulled out a file I didn’t know was even stored, and revealed that I actually knew who the unhappy couple were: the recently engaged son of an Instagram friend’s friend and his bride-to-be. Perhaps I’m just overly sensitive. December 2025 marked thirty years since I was dumped by my then-husband, nine months pregnant, and still—despite all the fear of the unknown—I felt that January 1st, 1996, granted me a brand-new chance to make a really good life. I hope they each get a chance to make a really good life, but I will never know, as all parties have since been unfollowed.