This is my rant.

I am here in the airport. It is desolate. I have never flown on a Saturday evening. It is quiet except for the woman who is sitting three seats from me. She is probably in her fifties.

I am trying to read about Alexander Pope. I have lots of reading to catch up on. But, here, I am instead distracted by the over-weight, middle-aged broad in a tacky bright pink sweater and fake pearl earrings.

At first she was loudly crunching her salad. Shoveling it in, forkful upon forkful. It’s okay. Focus. Focus. I chant my mantra in my head.

Next she opens her rice, snack mix. It is a loud, thin plastic container; the kind dried fruit and nuts are packaged in at the supermarket. She opens it and starts throw it back in handfuls. Chopping down heavily on mouthfuls of the crunchy pieces. Do you know what this sounds like??? The chopping of baked goods coupled with the smack of the saliva at the back of her throat.

Ok. Her cell phone rings. And she picks up. I have a break! Finally, no more loud chewing.

No. It gets worse. She is simultaneously eating the snacks and talking to the other person on the phone. Her voice grows louder as she begins gossiping (oh god. a lisp.) about so-and-so and how he lost all the money he had in the stock market, and how he will lose his ski-house and that he and his family will have to live with relatives up in North Conway and that she “never thought it would come to thisssttthhh. It isstthh the wortthhhsstt I’ve sstthhheen in my lifetime.” Her speech, the sound of her voice is drawn out at the end of each sentence—for dramatic emphasis, mind you.

A man sitting across the section from me looks up at me from his book. Really? He seems to say, tilting his head forward to look over the top of his reading glasses.

Her commentary has finally pushed to me to make my usual move of frustration. I take out my phone….and write an impassioned text message to share my anger with a friend, in hopes that the venting will relieve the growing desire to pummel my phone at her face.  But I hold back. But the vision of my desired action, grants me enough satisfaction to hold me over.

Her phone call ends. She is vigorously brushing crumbs of her stiff, cotton pants. Why is it that some people cannot just be quiet!

I think she can feel the hate. She is moving from me. I should have thought of that.