Privacy. Forfeited.

In the airport. Men. Around me. Talk. On their phones. Without thinking. (I internally note. Thoughtless. Un-thinkers.)

The conversation. Of the man next to me. Close enough. To read this if he’d like. Forfeits. His privacy. When he chooses to have this conversation. Right next to me. Instead of in another place. A more private. Space.

Unfolding. He reveals. More than he probably. Knows.

He. Kvetches about Tiger Woods.
He. Gets headaches every morning.
He. Will drive home in his jeep.
He. Stayed in a hotel where there were a group of football players last night.
He. Was in an elevator when the pizza for said football players was delivered.
He. Needs to do his expense report on the weekend so he can “pay for your butt to come over here to the United States.”
He. Wants to know whether he or she should visit the other for Christmas.
He. Says she needs to apply for a visa.
He. Wonders why every time this comes up, she has a reason why the time won’t work.
He. Suggests maybe they could go to Hong Kong. They’ve never done that.

I start to wonder where she is. I imagine her. In the Philippines. And remember the men in the airport in Manila. I blogged about. A few years. Ago.