The Flight Home

Last Edit September 2, 1998

The airport arrival was traumatic. We three will be separated one by one until I am left alone. I refuse to cry.
And everywhere we went he heard how Fabio had passed through the day before. Had to forget. The waiter at the hotel, the driver. And then American filled us in. Everywhere I went I was following.
Pheromones.
Everywhere.
Sigh.
By the time I am ready to board my commuter flight, I decide I am old, and slow and have a bad back (all true) and will board early. I am concerned about my bag. My Fabio photos are in it. When I boarded early on the way in, they almost challenged me. Ha! Just because I no longer have hyperactive kids they want removed from the waiting room is no reason to keep me back. I do have a bad back. I am slower than I used to be. Let me on early.
And then they tell me I must "valet" my bag. What on earth is that?
They send me into the tube and behind me I hear the thundering herd.
A slight hitch develops.
They need to add fuel - they are 7 gallons short. They don't want to refuel in Dallas. Considering the heat -- I can't blame them.
They take my bag before they discover this. It is sitting on the apron under the wing. They send everyone else back. Seems there is no air conditioning. Can't run the engines while refueling. (That seems logical.) The ground car has a dead battery. (Ooops.) And the fuel truck is across the field. And the driver is pissed. (They tell him to add more than 7 so he feels better.)
I don't move. I remain in the tube by a fan. I watch my bag.
I warn them. Don't lose this.
The flight attendant perked up on hearing his name. Everyone does.
We chat. She heard he "had been in town." She didn't know why.
"Yes," say I. At the bachelor auction. For Make-A-Wish. I bought him.
I tell her what madness I committed.
It's hot. We chat. I keep a wary eye on the bag until I see it loaded. My suitcase I ignore. I can go home naked. Just not without my photos.
She hadn't heard about the event. This surprises me. It's a small town.
I told her that was too bad. That there had been seats available. What men there were there (in the audience) didn't count. Except for the crazy waiters.
Except for the two studs holding me up at the end. Shouting the bid into my ear. Whoever they were.
"Hang in there," they say. "You got him."
I was hanging in there.
I was totally focused.
I was numb.
I don't even know where their hands were.
She asked how I did it.
I stayed on target, I say.
I didn't even know where Fabio was. A red blur. That's really staying focused. I normally don't take my eyes off of him.
I didn't pay attention to the crowd except when the bid passed $12,000. Then it was noisy.
I was too committed.
Amazing, says she.
I am still numb, I say.
It will, eventually, sink in, says she. In the meantime I am seated and get friendly treatment all the way to Dallas. Knowing looks. Pamper her. She needs help.
I think it will sink in. After I get home and paste about 100 photos up on my bedroom wall.
Then I'll cry myself to sleep.
I think they call it exhaustion.
I think I have passed 25,000 words.
I don't plan to ever wash the dress.