Literature
3. The Sculpture
It starts with the air hitting me as i step out onto the AirStairs.
Thick and sweet, rolling off the tarmac in the way only jet fuel and heat can, gets up under my collar and into my nose so every single breath smells like power and money. I’m not even at the bottom of the stairs before some guy in a suit, thin, grey, custom-fitted to an inch of its life, is already hovering, eyes down, like if he looks me in the face he’ll burst into flames. He doesn’t ask my name, or even “how was your flight,” just a little head tilt and a palm out “this way" sir”.
The actual private jet is still hissing and ticking behind me, all white and glossy and dumb as hell, like a flex on physics, and for one microsecond, I wanna turn around and snap a selfie just to prove to myself this actually happened, but I don’t. Too cliche. Instead, I glide down the steps like this is what I do every day, a fucking velvet rope runway, and the man in the suit, his tie is so tight it might actually be a tourniquet