I don’t know why our plane has to sit here burning up 1000 pounds of fuel until we are light enough to use the only runway open for business now here in the Denver International Airport, but here we sit. At least they’re giving us wine and whatnot, and letting us use the small electronics.
Maintenance is being done on the other runway, they said. Grass cutting, or something. I am not sure. It sounds highly suspicious to me, but no other explanations are forthcoming. The man two seats ahead of me is whining about it to everyone whose voice mail he can access with his cell right now. His irritation makes it worse for the rest of us.
We left Peter this morning by the humanities building to register for his desired courses, unsure of how to sign up, or how to find his way to the shuttle-bus stop to get back to his dorm. He will be fine, of course, but we’re all nervous now. And we sit and wait on the runway and drink our nice red wine.
white pebble 