Like some sort of industrial breezeway, everything in the pick-up area of E Terminal Arrivals suggests speed, motion, no stopping, no parking, get in and get out, flashing lights, hurry up. I turn on my blinker and pull alongside the cones, put the car illicitly in park, and reach for my phone, texting, “I’m here.” A wash of excitement pours through me, anticipation of her presence, her touch, her smile. Suddenly someone is right outside my driver’s side window and I turn my expectant smile toward them. But it’s not her, it’s a petite woman in an azure top and gaudy white necklace, face twisted up with rage, neck veins bulging, screaming, “…holding up a whole line of cars! You can’t park here!” Her spit flecks my window. She is gesturing wildly at the cars behind me, and I wonder why they didn’t go around me since there is plenty of room to my left and my blinker is on. As if on cue, she turns to them and screams, “Just go around her, she’s ignorant!” I feel bad for her, embarrassing herself by screaming at strangers in public. She had a long day, a bad flight, has a bad relationship with whoever is coming to pick her up, stuck in the line of cars that was here before I arrived and will be here after I leave. Then it creeps in, the rage, blossoms from the base of my spine up through my organs and into my throat.