Jet Pack

He asks before he sits, and throws a thumb at the crowds. “Is it okay? Someone’s flight to Philly is all cocked up. Weather. Air traffic control error. I dunno. All these people…”

Jenny lets him share the table with her. There’s a table in the far corner, but she hates to be rude.

Someone behind her bumps her elbow. She looks, but then they’re gone. Just another body in the throng.

The man – golden hair, a dimpled chin, a white button-down shirt with the fabric pilling on the collar – licks his teeth and lifts a finger for a waitress.

“What are you drinking?” he asks over the noise.

Jenny holds aloft her own glass – a mostly drained Merlot. She says it aloud, just in case.

Waitress comes. Takes the orders. He asks for a gin-and-tonic. All around, the crowds thicken and tighten like a belt, like a pair of hands. She hates this place. Airports smell like airplanes. Ozone and cleaning spray and old perfume and coffee stains. Here, the added bonus of the tang of wine and gin and slushie nuclear neon margaritas (which she knows aren’t margaritas, but she loves them just the same).

“Where you flying?” he asks.

“Dallas,” she says.

He nods, like he knows. “Me too, me too.”

He’s got a dark blot on his blue tie. Looks purple.

“You’re very handsome,” he says, an odd choice of words, but there it is. “Pretty eyes.”

The waitress brings their drinks, hurries off. Jenny hoists the glass and takes a sip, and decides right away to stick the needle in his balloon. “I’m married.”

“No kidding.” He says it like he knew it. He already saw her ring, she figures. Just in case, she waggles that finger around her glass. The ring tinks against it.

She shrugs. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He waves it off. “I’m married, too.”

“Oh. Oh, good. I just thought — congrats.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jenny. Jenny Slater.”

The man’s mouth opens, agape. “Hey, Jenny Slater. That’s crazy. My name’s Paul Slater.”

“That’s my husband’s name.” Something feels off, now. Something she can’t identify. Like a knick-knack on a shelf moved away from the others, like a painting replaced in the night.

“I know,” he says, and smiles, and licks his teeth again. “I’m your husband, silly girl.”

“That’s not funny.” Already she’s looking around. Is this a joke? Where’s Paul? Is he here? She looks for police. An air marshal. Somebody. Anybody.

He raises his voice to match the volume of the crowd. “I don’t mean it to be funny, babe.”

The man slides across the table a driver’s license, and taps it against the bottom of her glass. It’s her husband’s license. She’d know it anywhere, because the corner was chewed up – teeth marks from their unruly terrier.

But two things, two things were different.

First, the picture. It wasn’t her husband. It was this man. With the golden hair and the dimple chin.

Second, on the corner opposite of the teeth marks – a rusty spot. A dried circle of weathered red.

Jenny feels dizzy. Her world, whirling. Her guts drop, like she’s already on the flight taking off, ascending, leaving an old place and going to a new one. A destination she didn’t choose. She’s motion sick. Again she looks around, she raises a hand, but nobody sees it. The ground is gone beneath her.

“We’re going to Dallas together,” the man says, chuckling. “A couple’s time away. From the kids! From little Becky and littler Melissa. It sounds so nice.”

He puts his hand over hers. His fingers are callused. The nails, chewed and ragged.

“The kids,” she says, the words barely loud enough. “My children.”

“They’re fine.” He tightens his hand. The calluses bite. Hangnails scratch. “And they’ll continue to be fine, because Daddy loves them very much, and Mommy loves Daddy. And that makes it all okay.”

Outside the bar, the announcement: flight’s boarding. Her flight. Their flight. To Dallas.

“Ready?” he asks.

“I don’t – what’s happening –“ She feels tears moving down her cheeks.

“Time to fly, babe.”

She’s taken away. She leaves the table, leaves the airport bar. With him. Her mouth is dry. Her nose filled with the airport stink. Everything feels loose, unmoored, flying high and getting higher.

The man winks. Smiles. Licks his teeth. And pulls her toward the gate, ticket in hand.

…

For the Crash And Burn Steve Weddle Memorial Airport Flash Fiction.