My ID and boarding pass in hand, I wait with the masses; all squished together but painfully alone. The feeling that brought me here in the first place.
I want to divorce my heart and escape the hurt. My future awaits in seat 19D on flight 1483.
Car seats, laptop bags, strollers, purses, bloated carry-on luggage, quart-size baggies stuffed with three-ounce bottles. I observe bits of peoples’ lives crammed into gray bins, progressing down the conveyor belt.
When my turn comes, I place my shoes neatly in a bin. No belt. No watch. No coins to drop in the bowl before I cross the threshold. By all outward appearances, my life looks uncomplicated; free. My arms are empty, but no one can see I carry my baggage on the inside.
No beeps when I walk through the scanner. I imagine my life being shaken like an Etch-a-Sketch. The messy black scribbles magically disappear the moment I cross to the “screened” side. A clean slate.
I don’t know where my flight lands, but it doesn’t matter, really. By then, with any luck, I’ll have left my heart in San Francisco.
flight (noun): (a) a trip made by or in an airplane or spacecraft; (b) a scheduled airplane trip
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