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“Oh um, yes, probably.” A pause where I tried to decide — is she less likely to talk to me if she has my crossword puzzle, or if I’m reading about albatrosses? Who the fuck wanted to get in a plane and learn about birds anyway?
Oh.
I got it — flight. I passed her the magazine.
She flipped to the back and huffed. “Look, this one is half-finished too. Irritating.” She started working the sudoku, but it was too difficult so she stuffed it in the pocket in the seat in front of her.
The man beside me passed gas.
His wife groaned.
I buzzed for another drink. I had hit my limit, and we all knew it: sweater-set lady, gaseous dude, the flight attendant; but my marriage had just collapsed back in LA and I was fleeing. I was fleeing so hard.
The flight attendant looked uncomfortable, until I said, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cameron Diaz’s sister? You could be her stand in — I’m an agent. I would want to place you in a romcom.” I passed her one of my cards.
She smiled and passed me the third vodka tonic.
That had probably been a mistake.
I didn’t drink that often and I took a sip and yes, this was too much.
I clamped my eyes tight and tugged at the leather choker, trying to get air.
My marriage had been a magnificent mixture of ‘been together since we were teens’ and ‘overly planned ceremony’ and ‘everyone knew we were meant to be together’ and ‘dream client became a movie star’ and now ‘wow, great house!’ And ‘how do you like working together everyday?’ And...
I felt nauseated.
Fleeing my marriage had taken about nine hours so far.
