front of the plane.
“Excuse me, sir,” I interrupted. “That area is reserved for passengers seated in our business class cabin.”
“This is my seat,” he said, motioning to the third aisle.
“Do you mind if I check your ticket?” I found myself asking.
The man fumbled with his briefcase momentarily before producing the electronic boarding pass on his cellphone. My heart dropped when I saw his seat assignment.
3B.
I forced a smile to my lips despite the wave of nausea that rolled over me. “Thank you for your cooperation. Have a nice flight.”
I turned and wobbled back to my position in the first exit row and manically grinned at each new passenger that walked by. My instinct was to immediately text Anissa to find out what had happened, but my phone was in my carry-on luggage in the rear of the plane.
The next twenty minutes slowly crawled by. I delivered cups of water to the passengers in my section and took their primary drink orders. I spoke to those seated in the exit aisle to make sure they were ready and willing to assist me in case of an emergency landing. I communicated with the captain on the interphone when he was ready to depart. It was only when I initiated the safety video that I had time to rush down the center aisle to the back of the plane to retrieve my phone.
Why aren’t you on my flight? Did you change your schedule?
My thumb hovered over the send button while I scrutinized my message. I meant the text as a show of concern, but the words by themselves might have read as demanding or accusatory when Anissa didn’t owe me any explanation.
I deleted the two questions in exchange for the more streamlined text I’d been sending ever since the incident.
I’m sorry.
+ + +
The overhead light that normally illuminated the hallway outside of my apartment door had burned out a few days earlier and my building’s supervisor had yet to fix it. I didn’t really need the light though. I’d lived in the building for nearly eight years. I could have probably walked from the parking lot to my front door blindfolded.
I hadn’t parked my car in its usual parking space though. I’d left it at the parking lot outside of a wine bar not far from the airport. I hadn’t wanted to go home after work that day, so I’d agreed to go out with Gemma. A single, respectable glass of wine and a charcuterie board had quickly descended into a bottle of wine and fast food delivery, but at least I’d had the good sense not to drive myself home.
I quietly cursed when my high heels caught on something in front of my front door, causing my already unsteady feet to stumble. I bent down and grabbed the offending object off the ground. It was dark in the hallway, but it felt like a t-shirt, probably an overboard passenger from one of my neighbor’s laundry baskets.
I successfully unlocked my front door and turned on the barely used light in the foyer so I could better see. I frowned when I realized I recognized the t-shirt that had been outside of my door. It didn’t belong to one of my neighbors; it belonged to me. The last time I’d seen the shirt, however, it had been on Anissa and we’d been kissing on her front stoop.
I shut my eyes when a fresh wave of remorse washed over me. Anissa had come over, but I’d been out with Gemma. Maybe she was only bringing back my t-shirt so I’d have no reason to reach out to her, but maybe she’d also wanted to talk.
I used the glow of my cellphone to investigate the hallway around my doorway, but nothing else had been left with the t-shirt—no note of explanation. I didn’t have any missed calls or unread text messages. I pressed the t-shirt to my nose and unabashedly inhaled. But like the absence of a note or a text, like the flight to Philadelphia that morning, Anissa was no longer there. It smelled like fabric softener. No traces of the woman who had worn it remained, no matter how deeply or how often I pressed my nose against the fabric.
+ + +
Gemma found me the next morning at our usual café table in the Detroit airport. I winced beneath the cover of my sunglasses at the ugly racket the legs of her chair made when she scooted closer to the small table. My blueberry