Bad Timing

You succumb to Phoenix airport Starbucks between Gates 15b and 17b when you are forced to stay there overnight because — get this — you went to the bathroom to exfoliate and when you came back with a revived face they had closed the flight. You had thrown your longhorns visor down on the carpet, stomped your feet and screamed, "NOOOOO!" So you resign yourself to getting comfortable on a vinyl bench. You ask yourself what Kerouac would do and then you proceed to make a pillow out of your dirty clothes and stack it on top of your satchel, propping your legs up on the carry-on that Doris let you borrow. You mostly sleep through the night, It's not like you check your watch too obsessively or anything. You fall asleep to a lugubrious offering from Smog on repeat. Morning comes in the form of a pretty sunrise and if your camera had any battery power left you would have gotten a shot of it. You're left thinking what a bad idea it is to go and buy a Starbucks, but you do it anyway. Better be good, you hope, slapping a fiver down on the counter. The 16 ounce vanilla latte is delicious.