We weren’t married and we didn’t have any responsibilities to anyone other than each other.
It was long before the days of 9-11 when you could show up a few minutes before a flight and be assured that you could make it through security in plenty of time.
Back then the flight attendants didn’t pay attention to whether one person at a time was entering or exiting the bathroom. They didn’t care what happened underneath the blanket either.
The back of the plane was where we liked to be. Empty rows and easy access to those bathrooms helped make the time go by.
You were more daring than I was; much more willing to take a chance getting caught doing something others wouldn’t want to see. I’d tell you to stop because they were approaching with the drink cart but that would only make you try harder to make me squirm.
But that was then and this is now.
Now I sit here waiting for them start the boarding process, watching and waiting.
There must be several hundred people here with me but I am alone. I am lost in the moments and memories of people and places.
Stuck with images that always come back to me here.
This is where we said goodbye that day. You put your head on my shoulder and cried. I kissed your tears away and said I love you.
You just nodded.
I promised to come back.
You just nodded.
I hugged you again and buried my face in your neck. I inhaled, closed my eyes and did my best to make your scent a part of my forever memory.
When I opened my eyes you weren’t crying any longer. I thought you were ok. I figured that you had calmed down and that you knew I was coming back.
But you weren’t calm because I was coming back, you were calm because you were already gone.
Sometimes when I sit here I remember the last time we had sex. It wasn’t love making, it was just two people going at it. I should have known it was just part of your goodbye.
I should have known you were doing your duty. You were going through the motions so that I could get on the plane and we wouldn’t fight.
There is a couple standing at the window. They are holding hands and smiling. I can hear them talking and feel the smile in their voices.
When I stand up I can see my reflection in the window. It appears just behind their reflections.
I don’t know what to make of that if anything. We used to be them.
This is part of The Terminal, a prompt for Write on Edge.