Standing around in an echoing expanse of empty terminal and feeling like a third wheel, I was ordered to take my luggage and stand elsewhere by one of New York’s finest while the mystery of H’s missing case was solved.
Now totally alone, I waited, arms clasped behind my back like a schoolgirl outside the headmaster’s office in the days of corporal punishment.
Then I waited some more.
“What you doin’?” Another of New York’s finest, who had been leaning on one elbow and perusing the newspaper, finally noticed me.
“Waiting.”
“What for?” He folded the newspaper into a neat square.
“I was told to.”
“Well seein as you’re doin nuttin.” He waved me forward and began dismantling my luggage.
“You left this alone at any point,” he rummaged through my underwear.
“No, but we were told not to lock our cases and well … I can’t say what happened to it after check in,” such obviously stupid rules always rile me.
He viewed me suspiciously and carried on rummaging until I felt myself blush.
“S’ok. You can go.” He zipped up my case and smirked.