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Maybe I’m the idiot for assuming we were on the same—serious relationship—page. But if he didn’t quit his job for Tara after so many years together and with wedding bells on the horizon, he’s not going to do it for me after a week of jungle romance.
The idiot asked for my phone number… to keep in touch.
What does that even mean?
The question tortures my poor brain hour after hour. On the first plane, I don’t sleep. On the second, somewhere over the Atlantic, I pass out due to sheer exhaustion, but when we land in New York I’m none the more rested. I still feel like crap, have found no answers to my questions, and I’m dying for a decent, not-in-flight cup of coffee.
With a four-hour layover ahead of me, at least I have plenty of time to get a lavish breakfast.
Inside the airport, my gate hasn’t been announced yet. So I wait in the general hub and stop at a nice bar with a clear view of the departures board. It’s not exactly a coffee shop, but I like the look of their fancy Italian coffee maker and of the donuts on display over the counter. I need the caffeine, the sugar, and the saturated fats. This is my place.
“Hi.” I sit at one of the high stools that line the main bar counter. “A cappuccino and a donut please.”
“Single or double glaze?” the bartender—a friendly-looking guy with sandy hair and blue eyes—asks.
“Definitely double.”
“On its way.”
Five minutes later he places my breakfast in front of me. “Sugar’s right there.” He points at a glass jar on the counter.
“Thanks.”
I add a sprinkle of sugar to my coffee and tuck in. At record speed, I consume everything, my stomach still grumbling once I’m done.
The bartender clears the empty plate and mug in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”
“What other breakfast food do you have?” I could eat another donut, but now I’m craving something savory.
“We do paninis,” the bartender says as if reading my mind. “Cheese and ham?”
“Yes, please. And an orange juice, please.”
He nods, smiles, and gets to work making the sandwich and feeding oranges to the juicer machine.
“Here you go,” he says, placing the food and drink in front of me.
I take a bite of toast and moan my appreciation. “Gosh, I really needed this.”
“Long flight?” he asks.
“Long everything.”
“Not a fan of plane food?”
“Who is?”
“No one, you’re right.”
The bartender lets me enjoy my second breakfast in peace, but when he comes to clear my plate again, he asks, “Traveling for business or pleasure?”
“Ah.” I scoff. “Business; no pleasure whatsoever!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Bad trip?”
“Bad boss.”
“Ouch. What did he or she do?”
