At the airport

Bishops. What does one call a group of Bishops? Seven of them, to be precise, travelling together after attending an annual conference in
Delhi. A ‘conference of Bishops’? Is ‘conference’ a collective noun?
 

Brown corduroy skirt, a subdued paisley design. Silk stockings, and smart floaters. A lady read from a bright yellow book with a smiling engine on its cover “Thomas comes to breakfast”, to a round-faced child who stared solemnly at her, and then at the book, and then at her again. 

Brown skin, but an accent that was all American. When he was speaking to the white man next to him, at least. They shared a game on brownskin’s phone, as a pretty white-skinned lady looked on indulgently, then enviously. 

Blue suits, red ties for the men; blue suits, red scarves for the women. Busily moving in behind the counter, and then out again. Smiling up at each other, an intimacy denied to everyone else there. 

Walking up and down an aisle, calm and poised, immaculately groomed. The sight of a face he knows, a ripple in that calm, then a smile. A pause, a few words, and he went on, dragging his luggage behind him. 

*Also at TomaytoTomahto

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2 Responses

  1. Great observations, and beautiful descriptions… 🙂

  2. Thank you! This is what waiting around for hours does to me! 🙂

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