envious of young love

I was tired, irritable, and anxious to get home. So the couple engaged in an R-rated goodbye at the airport got no sympathy from me. Enough already! I signaled with dagger eyes. It was like they heard my protest over speakers: He jumped back and picked his bags; she handed a blue plastic plate of goodies covered in Saran wrap (I’m guessing she made it with her mushy love just for him); they had one last quick kiss; and he was on his way, just ahead of me to the security gate.
But progress was halted with every couple of steps: He’d stop, turn, look sorrowful, wave and/or blow a kiss. Now my frustration was mixed with a tad bit of envy. I was envious of young love, of the attention they gave each other, of the way they were oblivious to the world around. Then, just as she turned the corner and was out of sight, he tossed the blue plate of goodies in the trash and marched on without a glint of sorrow or longing in his eyes. What a jerk!
And to think that I—for a moment—was envious of what I thought they had!
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