Airport fiction? What is airport fiction?
Well, it’s not stories about airports, said Jordan. I guess it means popular fiction that’s not too demanding. Oh, said Marsha. Well, yeah. You’re on vacation, right? That’s no time to be studying Shakespeare.
Jordan and Diane inched forward down the aisle, squeezing past other passengers setting up housekeeping for the next eight hours. Diane had a seat on the aisle in the mid-section. Jordan’s seat was in the last section, first row, starboard aisle: 48-B. 48-A was occupied by a middle-aged, round-cheeked lady rifling through folders in an over-size briefcase at her feet.
“Hi,” said the lady, looking up and sticking out her hand. “I’m Marsha. Marsha Stuart, S-T-U-A-R-T. No relation to that woman,” she said with a knowing look.
“I’m Jordan.” said Jordan, setting down his pack to shake her hand. “Jordan Farmar. These look like great seats.”
“They’re perfect,” said Marsha. “I’ve already checked it out—lots of room for stretching…