On the tarmac the planes believe in their flights awaiting the end of snow and ice. The couches emit a red glow. People sleep in corners. Swing their hips and drink their colas. Night easily becomes a year. The red couches softly glow. We should be sleeping. We’re drinking dry cappuccinos in the lobby of the TWA Hotel. John Wayne strides through with two paper cups of coffee, his white jeans tucked into his black rubber boots. The sleeves on his white shirt are cuffed.