Rewrite (Keeping the Meaning)
JFK was chaos: delays, long lines, cranky travelers. Then came the shrill voice—impossible to ignore.
A woman in a red coat stood FaceTiming in the terminal, yelling, “It’s not my job—I don’t care if she cries.” Meanwhile, her small dog relieved itself right on the floor. When a bystander pointed it out, she snapped, “Mind your business, Grandpa.”
She barged through TSA, demanding PreCheck access—she didn’t care that she wasn’t in the right line. She argued about her shoes (“It’s TSA‑friendly!”), forced them off, muttering threats to sue. Then at the coffee bar, she berated a barista over almond milk that wasn’t available. Again, no headphones—her music blasted for all to hear.
At Gate 22, she sprawled across seats, dog barking at anyone nearby. No one dared sit close—until I quietly joined her, pretending to chat. I later told her that the Rome flight had moved to a different gate—she believed me, grabbed her stuff, the dog, and stomped off, cursing.
Silence returned. A ripple of relief passed through passengers—quiet laughter, a thumbs‑up, even a soft round of applause, just to acknowledge the calm that followed.