Curbside, say, “Till Wednesday.” Tell her, “Drive safe,” then snake through security. Belt in hand, driver’s license in hand, snake through security in socks and don’t think about the wedding. Read the New York Times Book Review, read a piece in the magazine about clinical depression and self-employment and try and don’t think about the wedding. Because why? Because why think about it, is all. Move like traffic through the article and listen for the lady on the intercom, delays, delays, hear a fat man tell his wife about the Rockies. Hear two fat fucks in the terminal discussing fly fishing in the Sierras. Headed ultimately to Denver, the man lets slip. Also his knowledge of gadflies and Giardia. And of motorcycles. To Colorado via California, goddamn coolerfuls of steelhead, fingers crossed. Just two fat fucks, look at them. Listen for the lady on the intercom, wait, wait, then stare at the silver reflection of the plane on the plane’s silver engine, hung on a wing and cantilevered out over the brilliantine sea. Like fabric, with a luster. Brilliantine. The ocean as it falls. Like crumpled tinfoil, maybe. Sparkling in the sun, et cetera. Fall asleep. Finish the clinical depression article, then fall asleep. Or vice versa. Don’t think about the wedding.