A father exits from the building of the airport, has just landed back from a tiring trip, maybe it away for several days, is low, it has an old suitcase, has dirty glasses, dark skin, gray hair, a sloppy reporting on the head bald. Exceeds the glass door of the airport, out there are his wife and son. She cries, perhaps because it was waiting for him, perhaps because her son made her suffer. And the son was behind her, walks with a limp, is a forty without curiosity, has much bitterness, but does not know how to vent, is shot, there would be there, but maybe he had to accompany her mother. He does not like the demonstrations of affection. It has no spaces. The father sees them and drag them into the suitcase. His mother hugs him and kisses him. She cries. The child looks at them from behind, embarrassed. "Give your father a kiss, come on ..." He takes the suitcase of his father, starts: "The car is there." The father lit a cigarette, his wife still cries, almost desperate, tells him to turn it off. He goes out, embraces his wife as he walks, smiles, but maybe he would cry. Can not do it, it disappears down the sidewalk of the airport with his wife, his son behind in a hurry. Even I was there one night, then I have not seen again.
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