Flight 126
One/Two
I remember the last time I was here, on a plane. This plane to be exact. Flight 126, Austin to Joplin. The uncomfortable scratchiness of grey, polyester seats. The gentle vibrating motion of the plane breaking through air, and other times, the not so gentle jolts of turbulence. It was all so familiar to me. I’d been here many times before. Something about the last time I was on this flight sticks with me, though. Brighter than any other glimmer of a memory.
I remember running off the plane, top speed out of the terminal. I almost didn’t have time to stop before I saw her, beautiful as ever. Just the sight of her made my heart want to jump out of my chest, she was like an angel. She made even that airport feel like heaven.
In an instant, she was in my arms. At that moment, I was sure I was home. There was nothing I had ever been more sure of. Within moments, I began to notice it. All around us, strangers were gathering to observe our embrace. I didn’t mind, I never minded.
“Christofer,” she whispered quietly with her symphony of a voice. “Why are you dressed like this?” It was then that I realized it wasn’t us we were staring at, it was me. The fake moustache I had glued to my upper lip obscured nearly half of my face, dark and curled upwards and obviously tacky. The beige cowboy hat atop my head with a rebel flag printed on the center was only matched by the red bandana tied tightly around my neck and the loosely hanging bolo tie. I must’ve looked like an absolute loon.
I sighed gently and tried to think of an answer, some sort of explanation for my appearance. For several excruciatingly long seconds, nothing came to me. “I was in Texas, they told me that if I wore this I could be an honorary cowboy,” I whispered back. She giggled, letting me feel her smile against my cheek.
“You haven’t changed at all, Christofer,” she said, pulling off my cowboy hat and messing my hair up a bit. I wrinkled my nose at the feel of her fingers against my scalp; it was a gesture I hadn’t felt in while.
“I missed you,” I smiled, taking her hand in mine. She smiled back, lacing our fingers together.
“I missed you too,” she half-whispered, “so much.” I leaned in gently to kiss her forehead, sharing a laugh with myself as her skin twitched under the itchy fibers of my fake moustache.
I remember running off the plane, top speed out of the terminal. I almost didn’t have time to stop before I saw her, beautiful as ever. Just the sight of her made my heart want to jump out of my chest, she was like an angel. She made even that airport feel like heaven.
In an instant, she was in my arms. At that moment, I was sure I was home. There was nothing I had ever been more sure of. Within moments, I began to notice it. All around us, strangers were gathering to observe our embrace. I didn’t mind, I never minded.
“Christofer,” she whispered quietly with her symphony of a voice. “Why are you dressed like this?” It was then that I realized it wasn’t us we were staring at, it was me. The fake moustache I had glued to my upper lip obscured nearly half of my face, dark and curled upwards and obviously tacky. The beige cowboy hat atop my head with a rebel flag printed on the center was only matched by the red bandana tied tightly around my neck and the loosely hanging bolo tie. I must’ve looked like an absolute loon.
I sighed gently and tried to think of an answer, some sort of explanation for my appearance. For several excruciatingly long seconds, nothing came to me. “I was in Texas, they told me that if I wore this I could be an honorary cowboy,” I whispered back. She giggled, letting me feel her smile against my cheek.
“You haven’t changed at all, Christofer,” she said, pulling off my cowboy hat and messing my hair up a bit. I wrinkled my nose at the feel of her fingers against my scalp; it was a gesture I hadn’t felt in while.
“I missed you,” I smiled, taking her hand in mine. She smiled back, lacing our fingers together.
“I missed you too,” she half-whispered, “so much.” I leaned in gently to kiss her forehead, sharing a laugh with myself as her skin twitched under the itchy fibers of my fake moustache.