It’s around midnight, Chicago O’Hare Intl airport. I’m in the lobby in front of a color enthusiastic café, thinking the next minute I will pick up the phone and call him. My body completely ran out of the last piece of courage I had. I am feeling savagely insecure. At the moment, I illusionate we are chatting over a bottle of my favorite Pinot Grigio, breathing the same air in the wonderful Chicago skyline. Yet, I stupidly begin accessing that old high-school composition thing, compare and contrast, and the subjects are Sean’s and mine, truly.

Sean, successful auditor in fortune 100 firm, under the mission of SEC. Part glamorous in personal life, part mysterious. Probably draining every last energy at work daily, yet full of passion for the wonder. Me, miserable and filled up with what people called potential and fortune. Although the future is bright and wealthy, never felt the need for a hand. He is awfully handsome, linked to the far northern Poland. I can’t erase the hue of his blue grayish eyes. Me, I don’t know. Sometimes, if I see chubby photos of myself, that’s how I feel about me. He is constantly on business trips that no one hardly can realize he is still alive. Me, the mediator between the two most powerful cultures in the world, trying to assemble the combination of the essence from the two and dig my own stone ground to shelter my pompous and proud.

Then I realized something crucial: Sean is at Argentina while I am here in Chicago, carrying a desperately ailing body from the queasiness on the airplane. For the first time, I feel I cannot move one more inch and about to pass out. A man, six-foot, completely towered over me, strides toward me with a pigeon-toed gait. I can barely lift my head up to scan over his possibly charming face at the instant. A glowing picture on his iPhone is sarcastically dancing above my visage. He walks passed me and kindly checks if I am all right. I politely send him away, pretending I still can crawl to the nearest seat. I stand up; look at his black boots walking away to the distant. He’s got a bulky and muscular upper torso and thin pretty legs like a model.

I sit down at a silence moment, then I freeze, struck by my own dullness, but my brain reassembles constantly. This is a very ridiculous day for the crowd and me in Chicago airport. A thunderstorm and serious flood suppose to attack the near area concurrently. Over 200 flights are cancelled and delayed, so does my flight to Virginia. Outside the crystal clear window on the airport runway, there is no plane coming in or departure out. The terminals are jam packed with chaos: complains, phone calls, lined ups, and desperate faces.