Your boss is dressed to travel. Navy blazer, pleated khakis, Gucci loafers, waving his ticket in the air like a flag. I’m first class, I’m first class, pushing his way to the front of the line. Everyone stares–just the way he likes it. You try to ignore him. Try not to look so American.

Outside, the sky is island blue. No clouds. No wind. No hint of the dormant volcano below. Just a solitary bird gliding over the Indian Ocean. Inside, everyone watches the breaking news. Fiery images of yellow and red exploding on the small TVs scattered about the terminal. Flights delayed. Passengers scrambling. The airport a powder keg of shock and awe.

A woman wearing a burka walks by. Hey Steve, your boss yells from the priority line, get a load of this! I’m not getting on the plane with that! It’s a freeze-frame moment. All eyes now on you, cued up in coach. Wrinkled shirt, underarms prickling. You pretend not to hear him. He sneaks up behind you. Jesus Christ, Steve, you smell like ten men.

You get past security. He small-talks a little too loud, something about a dinner reservation at this 18th-century restaurant when you get to your layover in France. For fuck’s sake, who thinks about eating when our country is at war with another. You think about your brother over there. Pop a few Tums. Bury your face in your blackberry.

The US president is speaking. His twang, his mug on every TV. Someone throws a shoe at the screen right above you. It lands at your boss’s feet with a thud. He jumps up–manicured hands balled into fists. The shoe-thrower erupts in his face. You can smell the ash in the air.