He was leaving. We sat nursing our beers at the bar of one of those typically expensive restaurants you would find at the airport. The silence was soothing, a silence that comes naturally to friends who have grown used to each other's company. There was nothing to be said, well, nothing that really mattered. I looked at him. He looked tired and haggard. He hadn't shaved. His eyes were bloodshot and it wasn't because of the booze. But then, a girlfriend breaking up a long term relationship could do that to a guy. If only things had worked out for him.
I watched as fresh information cascaded over the dot matrix departure display after an invisible hand had wiped it clean. Another ten minutes and he would have to proceed for security check, announced a sweet voice. Ten minutes. After years of beer outings and football games and cookouts and late-night parties, it had come down to ten minutes. He had heard it too as he was now unsuccessfully trying to gulp down his pint. I smiled. He would not finish it. He never could. But he always ordered a pint. Some things never change.
We walked to the security check area. He hated long drawn out goodbyes. No pithy sentimental speeches like the ones they gave in the movies. Besides, he had already heard all of it over the past few days. We reached the gate. He turned around and said goodbye. I wished him good luck with a hug and a pat on the back. Yes, he said, luck is something I could have used. And he walked in through the security gate.
I stood there thinking about the way things had turned out. It was a darn shame. The stupid visa quotas. It was a darn shame alright.
