Young, both of them. Him a little older than her. Him: twenty at most. Her: a mature eighteen. They took a long time.
Big ceiling-high window behind them, four planes took off on the nearest runway in the time they took. I could hear a bit. Not everything. Him: I will never forget you. A close dynamic between them. As though almost equals in affection. If possible. My guess: both boy and girl American.
Or Canadian. She could be English. She speaks too softly to pull out an accent. That seems to me most likely. A hundred years ago. She touches his face. He kisses her. First the couple will share a small kiss, chaste, as though not wanting to spoil the gentle poignance of parting.
Then one or the other or both at once will realize the absurdity, the vanity of such a gesture and kiss the other passionately, with full body, and the other will respond, knowing this to be the last kiss from this particular kisser for a period that may well be indefinite.
And so it happens here. Then, typical too, the flyer, in this case him, rushes through the gates without looking back. She, the remaining, waits a few minutes watching his distant back as he passes through the metal detector. Then a few minutes more. Eventually she moves away from the gate.
