Guilty Pleasure

In the airport, a wary woman sits alone, hunched over. She wears light winkles around her eyes and mouth, but her luggage is childish. She looks embarrassed, and as her blond hair falls back from her face, I catch a glimpse of a Ben and Jerry tub balanced on her knees. Startled, as though she knows I'm watching, she pulls a plastic spoon out of her mouth and tucks away her guilty pleasure. She swings the bag over her shoulder and brushes off her shirt, reclaiming her dignity, and she melts into the crowd at the other end of the terminal.