Jesus Christ, guys. You're worse at nagging than my mom. Here is the next chapter, largely unedited. I do not give a fuck. It's also on my t u m b l r under 'stories'. - It’s quarter to twelve. It’s sunny and warm and humid as a jungle. The curb outside the airport terminal is filled by a steady stream of traffic. Tourists. The human locusts that swarm to any remotely pleasant location and devour all that’s good about it, then go home and tell others what a lovely time they had. Fuck off. They push past me and I have to stifle the urge to check for my wallet every time. I would have robbed them blind a thousand times in that short window of bodily contact. 
Christ. Some ass has the nerve to eye my cigarette, put down his luggage, and ask, “Can I bum a smoke?†“Non. Crisse de cave.†He stares at me those big brown cow eyes that look even bigger against a receding hairline. “Sorry, what? I don’t speak French.†“Pff, dans le cul.†The pretentious cunt mimics smoking and I dare say I enjoy breathing in the smoke and blowing it out in a blue jet. He looks away first. Ha. That’s it. Take your bag and get into the cab. That’s it. Blush and don’t look me in the eye. Fucker. Get lost. These are the very cigarettes that have killed me, but it makes them taste that much better. My chest aches and I feel a little bit out of breath, but the irony makes me smile for the first time in two days. I think I enjoy cigarettes more now than ever before. As if to reprimand me, a stray itching pain causes a wracking cough to rake down my throat and reverberate through my lungs. It feels like a large fist is squeezing my chest and for seven terrifying seconds I can’t breath. There’s a faint tang of blood and sick on the back of my tongue. I clear my throat a little too loudly and people stare with a mix of curiosity and concern. When they turn away I walk to the garbage and discreetly spit out a pink glob of spittle and crush the butt of my cigarette on the garbage bin’s scuffed ledge. There’s no dignity in terminal illness, is there? I glance at my watch to avoid the probing stares of passers by, nosey fuckers, and head inside. He will be coming in from Toronto and sadly there is a flight from Toronto every two hours. It’s very frustrating. The airport is busier than usual today. Flocks of English-speaking tourists fill the small terminal. I can see the single car rental service is overrun and the Chinese exchange student working there is ready to pull out her hair. Yes, I know her name. I know which part of Beijing she lived in and that she came here to learn medicine. She lives three blocks away from me and has regular dalliances with women when her cousin, the only relative she has in this country, is away getting into the same mischief. They have no idea what the other is up to and I dare say it’s the most entertaining drama in the neighborhood. Hers is my favorite story, but I know every one of the employees in the airport. They don’t know me, but I have thoroughly scrutinized every aspect of their personal lives. It’s all on file now, which saves me a lot of leg work. It may seem excessive to some, but it is what keeps men like me alive. Only to die on cancer, yes, but still. I have this time. This moment. The airport is safe and I can meet Sniper without fear of reprisal. A spy is never truly retired until he is either dead or believed to be dead. I walk past the bustling crowd and head towards the arrivals gate. She doesn’t even glance at me and yet I know intimate details about her life. If there is ever a time I forget why I became a spy, the power in moments like this reminds me. I could crush her fragile life unfolding here or help it bloom and she doesn’t even know it. And yet I can’t find Sniper’s flight. No, that is dishonest. I won’t. I’m--afraid. Another flight has landed from Toronto and my palms go cold and clammy all over again. I can guide wars and change lives, but waiting for Sniper sweeps all of that aside. He is unhygienic and by no means the most attractive or suave man I have slept with. It’s the silliest thing. Even as I walk back towards the domestic gate, the memory of his rough, calloused hands sends a thrill up the inside of my thighs. It’s now 12:04 PM and I have done this dance several times this morning, but it’s still the same. Unfamiliar faces pour through the door. At first, it’s just a trickle. Then the whole damn flight floods the gate. Some are brisk and businesslike. Some are greasy-haired and exhausted. Some are bright-eyed and smiling. Some are greeted by families right away. Others walk by, alone. So many irrelevant, unfamiliar faces. For an absurd moment, I wish it was over with. All of it. Sniper, the cancer, my life. I can’t handle these in-between moments. Give me what was and what will be, and I’m happy. It’s the what if’s that I can’t handle. His presence touches me. He’s here. His eyes are on me. And there he is, pushed to the side by irritated passengers behind him. He’s looking at me. He’s taller than I remember. His hair is longer, too, with gray around his temples. His skin is darker, more deeply lined. It’s the same look the world over. An outdoorsman. A man who earns a hard living. Does he see the same in me? Does he see--it? Stupid. Stupid! Here he is, and I’m just standing in the middle of the airport like a starstruck girl. Jesus. This is the part all those soppy romance movies forget to tell you about. You stare at each other with absolutely no idea of how to proceed. None at all. There’s so much riding on this first--second--impression, it’s nailed my feet to the perfectly polished floor. But then we’re standing in front of each other. Jesus, when did he start walking? I don’t even remember. An unfamiliar scar slices his right eyebrow in half and leaves a silver notch on his eyelid. A story I don’t know about. Another thing I will have to fix. “Well?†Sniper prompts and gestures to himself. “Not what you expected?†Christ. I never thought it would be this hard not to kiss him. It takes an age to find my voice. “You still look like a ‘orse.†His brows quirk at that. The new scar stretches like a silver elastic. “And you still look like a bloody giraffe.†I look at him for a moment. His stubble. His hair, greasy now from hours traveling. He’s wearing some horrendous shirt that makes him look like he went golfing with a car salesman. I would have never allowed him to buy it. Ever. I will have to find him something else. He raises his hand to--touch me? But we are in public. He passes it off as flicking away an insect. His palms are heavily calloused. His arms sport prominent veins. He’s all bone and gristle, really. All mine. “Do you....†Christ, my voice is nearly gone. “Do you ‘ave many suitcases?†It takes all my willpower to stop looking at him and point to the carousels to my left. “Nah.†He shrugs nonchalantly. “Just bought a ticket a came here.†Why did I wait until now to call? “I see. I’m parked out front.†I can’t even look at him or else I’m going to do something maudlin in front of everyone. “Dere is a mall near my place. You can sleep and I’ll pick up some basic nece--†“No,†he says. Quickly. Too quickly. I make the mistake of looking at him. His face is intense. Focused. Entirely too handsome. It’s been too long since I’ve had that look directed at me. He forces himself to relax. I can imagine all the muscles in his shoulders losing tension. Sculpted and scarred from years on the hunt. And from one or two nights in his van, too. Okay. Stop looking. Stop looking. Of all the inappropriate places to grow amorous. Jesus. “Let’s just get to your place.†Sniper tries to look casual, but he’s not a good liar. Never was. He’s close to the edge. Well, that’s somewhat comforting if not extraordinarily more inconvenient. But how the hell am I going to drive 20 minutes feeling exactly the same way?