Gallardo, Gallardo, tapped up and down, in cursive copied from machines, from a machine that copied cursive. He was new on her. He glistened under the flourescent airport lights, tear-stained skin, ink-stained skin, in prickled, tickled, pain. And he bobbed up and down, up and down. Faster faster! He commanded the floor, but the floor could only do so much. After all, it was just a floor.
Gallardo, gallardo, slowly making his way through, it would be his first time in an airport, on an airplane. She would take him home for the first time, she would introduce him to her mother and she would have a fit. She would take Gallardo to school, to meet her friends, the mailman, the disappointed aunts. Gallardo, gallardo, they would have a grand old time! Now if only they could get out of this bloody immigration line.