My plane is delayed. I’m sat in one of those plastic chairs, the ones that are really uncomfortable and make your back hurt, looking around the vast space. People are milling around languidly. More delays, I guess. I wonder where they’re going.
My name is Jet. Ironic, really, that I have jet black hair, and am waiting for a jet plane to take me to my new job on the other side of the world. I am leaving lovely, sunny England for Canada. Oh how I shall miss the British weather. Not. It’s going to be a culture shock, I'm sure. I’ve heard people are a lot more relaxed; less hostile than Americans. Apparently. I don’t know, but I suppose I’ll find out when I finally get there. But until the plane gets here or gets ready or finishes doing whatever it’s supposed to be doing, I’m stuck here, on this chair.
I hope it gets here soon. I need to get away from so many people. It’s not like I’m averse to people, I just need to stretch my wings. Literally. Folding them up under my skin is a pain, if I have to do it for so long. Yes. I have wings. No, I'm not an angel. Totally the opposite, actually. It’s a long story, but here I am today, a demon. Maybe I’ll explain some other time.