Part of a book I've yet to write.

Buster had been sitting in the orange molded chair at the Branson/Springfield Regional Airport for three hours. His feet were propped atop his carry-on luggage and a folded newspaper flanked him on either side. He didn't want to talk.
It was only now five o'clock and the gray cloud cover was surrendering its low ambient light to the coming pitch night sky. As best he could tell from the Spanish closed-captioning of The Weather Channel the snow showed no signs of slacking in Memphis, the city through which his flight was to connect, and the reason his flight status went from delayed to delayed to cancelled.
Thoughts of other times and other loves filled his head. Giant blocks of time passed without a movement. Buster sat and thought. The snow in Memphis was only putting off his reemergence into a former life. Five hundred miles and five hundred years away.
Tomorrow was another day and it would begin some fifteen hours from then. Why don't airports have cots, he thought. Then he reasoned, that would be gross.
Because of the homeless people, they don't take care of anything.