Oh the possibilities

I've never fancied myself particularly creative, except as a storyteller. There's a particular joy in weaving together the perfect words, a mischievous smile, and just the right amount of drama to solicit laughter, or even tears, from others.

My favorite thing to talk about, of course, is me. But then there are the tales I make up, mostly just to kill time.

Take the couple sitting across from me at the airport right now. It's worthy of note that we're awaiting a flight that should have left around lunch time. She's visibly annoyed, but the steps he's taking to console her just seem a little too much.

Maybe she's pregnant and so he's extra concerned for her temperament. Or maybe he was recently busted being unfaithful, so he's digging out. Or maybe, and I think this is my favorite possibility, she's just a bitch. One with doting parents who taught her she could do no wrong. She took ballet as a child and pretended to love it, all the while despising every tu-tu and plie.