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James Conrad Mckinley



Summer 2002 | Fiction

The young man had just missed his previously-ticketed flight from LAX, but the ticket agent, a middle-aged woman with hair dyed a brilliant auburn color, managed to get him booked on the very next flight to Charlotte. The ticket agent wore a good bit of gold jewelry and had land eyes ringed this late in the day with mascara-clotted lashes; streaks of her lipstick, a shade darker than that of her hair, stuck to the edges of her square front teeth. She was quite obviously shocked at the way he wept and sniveled, making a quiet spectacle of himself, really, like a lovesick girl, or actually more like a bereaved woman.