He’ll say, “This is going to sound weird but—” and you’ll cut him off and say, “I was thinking the same thing.” He’ll say, “So you remember?” Say, “I think we’re even in the same row.”
It was a flight from New York to Los Angeles. It was around ten years ago. And you never forgot him.
“I never forgot you, you know,” he’ll say.
Tell him on that flight you were on your way to move in with your boyfriend, now husband, following him for his job, and you remember he was moving closer to his new wife’s parents who had fallen ill.
“They’ve since died,” he’ll say.
“I remember all of it,” tell him. “Because whenever I’m feeling unsure about things I remember how well you and I got along, how I felt sitting next to you.”
You remember his smell. You remember your forearm against his on the armrest. You remember his Leon Uris book.
He’ll say that sometimes he sees your face when he makes love to his wife. You’ll say you once drove to the airport, just to think, but also to watch the people walking out of arrivals, just to see.
“And now we’re on a plane together again ten years on,” say.
“I don’t believe in signs,” he’ll say. “But if I did, I’d assume this was one.”
“I’m dying,” tell him.
You are. You have four months. And this is cruel because putting you back in this seat next to him it’s like you’re being given proof that you haven’t lived the life you wanted, that you should never have said goodbye when the plane landed that day.
“It’s rotten,” he’ll say. “We could—”
“I have a daughter,” tell him. “I could be selfish and leave my husband to cram as much of you into my last four months as possible, but I couldn’t do that to my little girl.”
“Then what do we have?” he’ll ask.
“We have four and a half hours until we reach our destination…” the Captain will say over the loudspeaker.
Happy You Have Four And A Half Hours Until You Reach Your Destination Day!