Lincoln was restless; he was in the underground car park at the airport, awaiting his sister's arrival from some far-flung exotic nation - yet another glamour shoot for that magazine she was always prattling on about. The radio was quietly playing in the background - not that he was really listening; he was too busy cursing the fact that he was the one designated to pick Donna up.
He glanced at his watch for what was the fifth time in as many minutes - two in the afternoon and she was already fourty-five minutes late. He wondered what tired, lame excuse she was going to use this time: the plane was delayed, customs was a bitch, I broke a fingernail - he had heard them all before and wasn't too keen on hearing another version.
The news on the radio broke in on his thoughts: "....Air France flight 2228 has gone down over the Atlantic Ocean, there were no survivors...."
"Bloody hell, another one, can't they keep these friggin' things in the air? What the hell is keeping Donna..?”
(This was a piece for Thinking Ten. The prompt was:
On Location, Monday: Air France Flight 2228
The only rule: somehow tie the above location into your daily flash.)