The wrong turn out of La Herradura, thanks to the map app.

The wrong rental car parking lot: again, the app. 

The ex-husband who would be here to help if he wasn’t the ex.

The gas station crowded with cars; no time to top off the tank.

The sign pointing to a parking garage: rental car return.

The long line. 

The minutes that ticked. 

The Tesla stalled in the lane.

The clerk who charged for an entire tank, though it was three quarters full: their policy.

The Air France agent who printed the boarding pass.

The security line that barely moved.

The bald business man who tried to flirt.

The family with teens who joked around and then scrambled to prep their bags.

The other side: miles of stores, no sign of the gates.

The crowd flowing into the duty-free shop and passing through to the other side, to the gates. 

The gate with plenty of empty seats.

The smallest sense of calm.

The screen displaying departure times.

The flight that’s been delayed. 

The hour to kill.

The gift shop, jewelry shop, shop with gourmet food.

The dozen ham legs all lined up, complete with hooves, impossible to avoid, still.

The new gate posted on the board: E73.

The terminal that ended at E68.

The backtracking.

The speck of a sign that pointed downstairs: E70 to E74.

The lugging of luggage down the stairs.

The passengers pushing into boarding groups.

The pass that showed Boarding Group One.

The short line.

The first bus.

The seat on the first bus, while others pressed on to stand.

The long, slow, circular drive to the plane.

The ground crew that rolled up the stairs.

The pilot in white who poked out the door, inspected the stairs, and called to the crew.

The yellow tape they pulled across the stairs.

The crew who wheeled the stairs away, then back again, then adjusted them for eternity.

The second bus that arrived.

The third bus.

The first bus that grew increasingly warm.

The loud men who fumed. 

The child that sobbed.

The pilot who poked out again, inspected again, called again to the crew.

The yellow tape they removed.

The other buses that opened their doors.

The crowds that rushed the stairs.

The doors on the first bus that finally opened.

The lugging of luggage up the stairs.

The narrow aisle. The aisle seat.

The college student who crossed to the window seat.

The handsome man who smiled, pointed to the middle seat, and said excusez-moi.

The handsome man who also knew English.

The handsome man from Amsterdam.

The handsome man who played the guitar.

The handsome man.

The handsome man.

The smiles.

+++

Patti Jazanoski‘s writing has appeared in Cimarron Review, Ploughshares blog, Kenyon Review Online, The San Francisco Chronicle, and elsewhere. She’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions anthologies. She earned  an MFA from Bennington Writing Seminars. https://pattijazanoski.com