I know I shouldn’t look at them, I know I need to just ignore them.
But either watching strangers do it on a plane is some new kink of mine, or curiosity killed the cat.
I stand at the end of their row and look down.
I can’t see anything, blankets are covering them as they go at it from the side.
And at it, and at it.
Way to rub it in.
Oh, he’s rubbing something alright.
I’m in the middle of turning around when suddenly the plane hits an air pocket, the turbulence causing the plane to drop some feet.
I lose my footing, thrown forward.
I fall right over on the couple, face down where you don’t want to be face down.
Oh. My. God.
“Hey!” the girl cries out.
“Sorry!” I say, placing my hands on their hips and other body parts, trying to push myself back up. “So sorry!”
I can’t even look at them.
“As you were,” I say.
I straighten up somehow and then, feeling panicked, head right to the galley at the back of the plane.
There are two flight attendants back there sitting down and chatting. They both look at me with weary smiles, the kind that says they’d rather not be dealing with passengers right now, especially not someone like me who must look all flushed and wild-eyed.
I’m tempted to tell them about the sexcapades in row 50, but decide they probably don’t need the extra stress.
So instead I ask for a glass of wine and if I can just hang out in the galley with them, because I am not going back to my seat.
I think they can tell I’m desperate for company or something, because they say yes.
I go through another glass of wine.
And then I start talking about my old job, and then Chris.
And they start feeling sorry for me.
The wine keeps coming.
Two
Daisy
When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things was to go on family trips to Portland, something we did just a handful of times a year. But it wasn’t the supposed glitz and glamor of the big city that made it so special (everything was glitzy and glamorous when you lived on a farm, in Oregon, in the middle of nowhere).
What I remember most fondly is the car ride back home.
We’d leave at dusk, the city lights twinkling behind us, and then we’d be on the I-5 for hours heading south. My sister and I would bicker in the backseat for a while but it wasn’t long before I’d fall asleep. I was such a sound sleeper those days, that I wouldn’t wake up until we were in the driveway. My parents thought I looked peaceful, so they let me sleep back there until my father either carried me to my bed, or when I was older, gently shook me awake.
I’d wake up with this sense of wonderment, how it was possible for me to fall asleep somewhere and wake up somewhere else, like I was time traveling.
Well, I’m having that exact same feeling again.
Except I really have time traveled (to the future), and instead of waking up all blissful, I’ve got a raging headache and queasy stomach, and instead of my father shaking me awake, it’s a flight attendant.
“Miss?” she says gently in her strong accent, her hand on my shoulder. “We’re landing soon.”
I open my mouth to try and say thank you, but it’s so parched my words come out in this creaky groan. I open my eyes, blinking hard at the bright light coming in through the windows.
Dear god, I feel awful.
Slowly, and rather awkwardly, I sit up on the Skycouch, the fleece airplane blanket sticking to me in an aura of static cling. The world seems to swirl and my stomach flips on itself.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this hungover.
Though I can’t say it’s undeserved.
I remember one of the flight attendants giving me two mini bottles of wine and ushering me back to my seat, but only after I must have spent at least two hours talking their ears off and drinking most of their cart. Thankfully, the boinking couple were asleep by then, though it wouldn’t have mattered because I was drunk as a skunk, and must have passed out soon after that.
Speaking of, the couple are now sitting up in their seats and sipping coffee and giggling intimately, so obviously their bout of makeup sex made everything right again in their world.
Maybe it would have worked with Chris.
The thought flits through my mind as it has a million times this last week.
Had I been too hasty to break-up with Chris? I mean, I would imagine most people in my shoes would kick them to the curb and never look back. But was there something between us that would have been worth saving, something worth the sacrifice of looking the other way, of having all trust burnt to the ground?
Truth is, no. I know I did the right thing. But it’s been weighing on me anyway, like my life split into two on that day, and I had a choice to either continue on with Chris in my life, or cut him out and go out on my own.
And so here I am, out on my own.
I sigh but even that makes the knives in my head dig deeper.
Not the best way to arrive in a new country.
I slowly put the bed away and head to the lavatory to wash my face, brush my teeth, then go back to my seat and spend a good twenty-minutes doing my makeup, hoping to hide all traces of my hangover. The last thing I want is to see my family while looking like an ogre.
It’s not long before the wheels are bouncing on the tarmac, which causes my own stomach to do the same.
Oh…no.
Please, no, no, no, no.
I hate throwing up. If I had ever gotten sick or hungover in the past, I would do everything possible to keep the contents of my stomach firmly inside me where they belong.
I’m trying desperately to do that now, but as the plane bounces again, going for the worst landing ever, I know there’s no stopping it. I’m reaching for the barf bag in the seat pocket just as it’s all coming up, making a very vain attempt to hurl inside of it as quietly as possible.
No such luck.
As the noise from the plane’s brakes dim, I’m yakking so loudly I sound like a bear trying repeatedly to cough up a honking goose.
“Oh my god, gross,” the girl in front of me says, while a few other people on the plane make sounds of disgust.
I can’t even care. It just keeps coming, louder and louder. I’d laugh at how ridiculous I sound, if only this wasn’t so horrible.
Finally, the plane comes almost to a stop and the barf bag is full and I’ve never felt so gross and embarrassed in all my life. It’s one thing to throw up on a plane, it’s another to do so sounding like a bleating goat on helium. My face is so hot, I’m at Tomato Zone 2 (when my skin on my forehead matches my hair).
I just sit there, gingerly holding onto the edge of the bag, wanting so desperately to head to the lavatory and throw it out, but the minute the seatbelt sign comes on, everyone is an asshole and stands up, blocking my way to the back. I have no choice but to sit in my seat and wait until everyone passes me by.
So I sit there for literally ever, brushing my hair over the side of my face so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone, and wait until the plane has pretty much unloaded.
Then I rush to the lavatory and dispose of it.
When I come out, the flight attendant who got me drinks all night is looking at me with an overly sympathetic look on her face.