I stand behind you in line to drop off baggage. You disappear while I argue about size and contents, and if this is even my flight.
Never mind, I grab my gear and drag it as I look for you. I catch a flash of tears you dab with tissue before you and your carry-on take the escalator down to the gate.
Crowds by the duty-free shop interrupt my chase. My bags slow me down. I rattle and clatter down the escalator, hoping to catch up.
The terminal is dim, and gate signs are unlit.
I see you walk through a door and shove my way through the line. I call your name. You turn and wave, then disappear from view.
The attendant stops me, pushes me aside, she’ll deal with me after everybody boards. The door swallows everyone but me.
The plane pulls away from the gate. You are gone.
She beckons finally, checks my ticket, says, It isn’t valid. This jet flies to eternity. Passengers will never deplane. Cargo will never unload. Your flight is in the future.
published in Imogene's Notebook
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