As I stood by the vending machine, the gentle hum filling the cramped airport terminal was somehow amplified in my ears until it sounded like the reverberation of a thousand whispers, my eyes kept drifting towards the woman flossing behind me. She had an oddly precise method to her gum-removal, pausing every few seconds to survey the surrounding area like she was a covert operation. My gaze would snag on a snippet of bright pink thread peeking from a nostril and I'd force myself to focus back on the menu. Should I risk overpaying for the 10-for-$10 combo or opt out for the solitary, uneaten beef jerky?
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