PAUL AND TEETHPaul was twenty-one and adrift. He was waiting and alone in the
Copenhagen airport, unsure of what to do with himself, unable to decide
if he should stand or sit.
Having anticipated his friend’s arrival and now strangely missing his friend’s arrival, Paul felt his cells slow down inside of him and his skin sag into one loose dead carpet of sunburn and sham.
Teeth had said 1:00 P.M., but already it was after 3.
A fresh tide of travellers extravenated itself into the arrival hall: blonde, after blonde, after self-loathing brunette. They bored Paul. Teeth would stick out like a sore, handsome thumb. Paul already stuck out like a sore, handsome thumb. They would both stick out like sore, handsome thumbs, and in an instant they would find each other, and they would run down the streets together like two fools with no debts. Where was he?