Rothko's Rolodex

Rosalie remembers not much from that thick gluey airport afternoon. Waiting placidly, watching Flight Aware and the terminal arrivals board, browsing the bookstore which was surprisingly excellent. Glad to be there early. Happy that this was today. Feeling safe while waiting; ever since someone at the ashram survived a terrorist attack at Athens Airport, Rosalie viewed stations and terminals with distrust and worry. Not today.
Blue sky and no wind, no rain, nothing suspicious or malevolent, no strange backpacks or expectation of a car breaching the curb and smashing the glass walls, running over travelers until it exploded. Nothing terrible.

She bought a New Yorker. One of the few niceties between her and Lars, really the only one left, not that there were too many at this point, was his giving Rosalie old New Yorkers. He saved them for her. He handed her a pile of issues once a month or so, always silently. She always thanked him audibly.

A woman in a cream blouse, harem pants, and pumps approached Rosalie. Sipping the dregs of her mint tea, her mouth soft and relaxed, reflecting her happiness at the girls’ return, her pleasure and relief, Rosalie smiled. The woman’s eyes kept darting. She held a small whiteboard with “Air Snoqualmie 168” written in neat thick black marker.

“Are you here for Air Snoqualmie Flight 168 inbound from Cabo San Lucas?”

Rosalie nodded. She noticed others in the terminal with the same sign, Air Snoqualmie 168, walking slowly, up to one person then another, collecting people. A few here and there. Gathering confused and increasingly suspicious looking people.

Rosalie felt something touch her arm. The woman’s hand on Rosalie, knuckles turning white as she held Rosalie’s bicep, pressing.

“What?”

“Snoqualmie 168?”

“What?”

Rosalie, moving, being pulled like she was a wagon, her arm the handle, this airport woman a bossy child wanting to get somewhere fast and pushing blocks of lead.

The air felt solid like cheese. She discerned other people being steered, a collection of six now. Eight. Moving in a clump.

A guy asked, why are you doing this? What the fuck is going on?

Rosalie’s vision changed and reduced, tunneling to a tiny hole at the other end of a huge unripe wheel of brie.

She heard a thud; a door? She shook her head, like casting off a nightmare or a terrible thought. In front of her face, temple to temple like a goalie’s mask, swirled a disco ball. It filled her eyes with strobes and glitter. Speedy, then slow motion. Clearing for a moment, she registered a room with priests and drinks. Trays of cups and tissues, tissues. People getting folded into chairs. Shouting and thudding and wailing. Rosalie hit the floor and before unseen forces scooped her up by the armpits, her tailbone smacked the cold marble hard enough to break the skin and ulcerate and ooze for two years to come.