Samson picks up his mail order bride from the airport

He wears a navy blue top and he holds a rose, a red rose, like they had planned. He smells of soap and fresh linen, masking his usual musty stench of cigarettes and grease. His hair has gel in it that also smells of the artificial and his hair is formed just so, sweeping to the side and allowing his whole face to beam out. He pats at it nervously, the action which could be attributed to an older lady with concerns of her perfectly coiffed hair. He sweats a little and the place on the stem that his hand holds is hot and darkened from the increasing and decreasing pressure of his nervously pulsating hand. The rose is dying and later when it is put in a vase, a preserved reminder of an ill suited relationship, it will wilt into itself quickly. Samson will note its rapid onset death but the metaphor will be lost on him.
He stands at the gate of the arrival lounge, directly in front of the passage way. She will have no way of leaving without him; he has made sure that he is the first person she sees. People around him, bustle and hive about in eager anticipation of meeting a loved one after so long. An observer of this scene would have noticed a woman with three children and a pram gazing longingly at the door, perhaps her husband, perhaps her lover. To the left of her is a young man with much the same mission as Samson, to meet his young partner, but here there is more sincerity, more love, more assuredness and the young man looks confident in his appearance and the knowledge of who will come through the gate. Close to Samson’s right is a large family, consisting of too many people, mother, father, sisters, brothers, husbands and wives, children and grandparents, all with the same mannerisms and looks, the nose and eyes the most significant common trait. They excitedly push and pull around Samson, unaware of the importance of this meeting, the meeting. All this Samson does not see, he does not see the nervous and anxious looks sent in his direction from the group that surrounds him, their sympathy for his plight highlighted by his transparency in his mission. He does not feel their collective vibe and interest as they wait with and around him. He does not hear the shallow whispers that gossip about his display. He sees, feels, hears only the doors, the gate, the departure way that will showcase his bride. He stands like a ballast, a statue, a proclamation of potentiality, of love, of fealty to his new mistress. People start to filter through the door, families weep, people gasp and sigh in wonderment over their long lost friend. Samson’s heart begins to speed up, his forehead glistens all the more from the renewed sweat of nervous tension, his eyes widen and gleam, the rose in his hand cries out “please stop this torture”.
Then the moment arrives, his heart bursts in song and his hand wave’s flurridly as he tries to gain her attention. There she is, there is his love, the one he picked, the one he chose, there she is. She pauses at the entrance of the gate and surveys the crowd, who watch under lowered eyelids in anticipation at the meeting. She sees him stand there, a most obvious display and she makes a show of looking again. She seeks the crowd in desperation at another option, another potential, there is none. She walks slowly towards him and he to her and stops short in front of him. He leans in to kiss at her cheek, an awkward and sloppy kiss. His excitement cannot contain itself any longer and he thrusts the rose heavily towards her and grins in love for her. She takes it with a nod and notices the sweat that has dampened the stem on the already wilting flower.
After they have collected her bags they move towards the exit, all the while he glances furtively at her in wonderment in need of assurance that she is finally arrived. His brief and momentary family consisting of the awaiting crowd watches this departure with interest and curiosity in what the future will hold for the sweaty man and the quiet woman.