The man behind me's been doing nothing but cough, loudly and open-mouthed, for the entire flight. I'm selfishly annoyed because I can't sleep even though all I want is to sleep off this horrible fucking dread of returning back west to snow and indecision and angry parents and I'm a grownup now, goddammit. I'm going to get my shit together, just leave me alone for a while and I'll wake you up when it's over and let you know what's happened.
It's a bumpy flight and I'm surprised I'm not scared because flying terrifies me and it's dark and I'm frustrated because I'm sure I'm in love but I keep trying not to be so really I'm a traitor to all my Aries-ness anyway. I'm supposed to be impulsive and spontaneous (I am) and think with my heart (I always have, so why not now?).
It's 25 fucking degrees in Minneapolis and when I left the Sunshine State it was 76. We were laying by the pool this afternoon, stretched out and dreaming of the future and it seems like we want the same thing even though I'm confused because he doesn't seem to get anything out of it. You, he says, I get you. I'm waiting for the catch. There's got to be a catch.
Pushing Tin, that's what they're doing. We're "holding" in the Minnesota sky. How fucking appropriate. I'm holding too, I want to yell. I'm holding!
*
There's something wrong with the next plane, who the fuck knows what, so we're all holding, 45 minutes late and counting but I'm not even worried because why worry about something so beyond my control when there are things within my control I'm not even worried about. So I'm sitting on the floor of this gray and blue airport terminal and people are stepping over me, all these bodies and as different as they are they're certainly all the goddamn same. Except the man next to me, who looks so much like my Religious Studies professor in college until he opens his crass fucking mouth talking into his tiny cell phone about market prices and how furious he is that we're running late and he's probably sold his soul for that gold watch and those perfectly-shined shoes and the perfect, tiny blonde on his empty arm.
All these business suits and expensive hairgel and I can't tell the difference between any of them, men and women and they all look and smell and probably feel and taste exactly the same although I wouldn't know and I really don't care to know. I've never been so uninterested in being a part of something. Wait, yes I have, and that's why I'm here and dreading my return to the land of minivans and holiday sweaters and first days of school.
He wants me to come back to Florida, his quasi-crazy enchantress. He likes the way I dance to whatever's playing. I like his sanity. He's just what I need and I'm cursing the universe.
It's a bumpy flight and I'm surprised I'm not scared because flying terrifies me and it's dark and I'm frustrated because I'm sure I'm in love but I keep trying not to be so really I'm a traitor to all my Aries-ness anyway. I'm supposed to be impulsive and spontaneous (I am) and think with my heart (I always have, so why not now?).
It's 25 fucking degrees in Minneapolis and when I left the Sunshine State it was 76. We were laying by the pool this afternoon, stretched out and dreaming of the future and it seems like we want the same thing even though I'm confused because he doesn't seem to get anything out of it. You, he says, I get you. I'm waiting for the catch. There's got to be a catch.
Pushing Tin, that's what they're doing. We're "holding" in the Minnesota sky. How fucking appropriate. I'm holding too, I want to yell. I'm holding!
*
There's something wrong with the next plane, who the fuck knows what, so we're all holding, 45 minutes late and counting but I'm not even worried because why worry about something so beyond my control when there are things within my control I'm not even worried about. So I'm sitting on the floor of this gray and blue airport terminal and people are stepping over me, all these bodies and as different as they are they're certainly all the goddamn same. Except the man next to me, who looks so much like my Religious Studies professor in college until he opens his crass fucking mouth talking into his tiny cell phone about market prices and how furious he is that we're running late and he's probably sold his soul for that gold watch and those perfectly-shined shoes and the perfect, tiny blonde on his empty arm.
All these business suits and expensive hairgel and I can't tell the difference between any of them, men and women and they all look and smell and probably feel and taste exactly the same although I wouldn't know and I really don't care to know. I've never been so uninterested in being a part of something. Wait, yes I have, and that's why I'm here and dreading my return to the land of minivans and holiday sweaters and first days of school.
He wants me to come back to Florida, his quasi-crazy enchantress. He likes the way I dance to whatever's playing. I like his sanity. He's just what I need and I'm cursing the universe.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
The suit is double breasted 40's, navy blue with rust and salmon orange stripes and matching braces. The shirt was mustard yellow, french cuffs with the cuff links matching the suit almost perfectly. I stood out a bit.