From: "Glass November" Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2002 00:05:11 +0000 Subject: My Own, by Glass November Source: direct TITLE: My Own AUTHOR: Glass November (glass_november@hotmail.com) RATING: PG CATEGORY: VA SUMMARY: Reflections in an airport at midnight. Sequel to 'Presence.' DISCLAIMER: I throw my shamed and unworthy self upon the burning pyre of humility and beg for forgiveness. Heh, yeah, right. AUTHOR's NOTES: This is a sequel to Presence, which you don't need to read in order to understand this. However, it's interesting and maybe you could, and then you could send me more feedback! Sigh. This could be considered an example of why I shouldn't write when I'm tired, or maybe simply more proof that I *really* don't want to think about atomic models. Sigh. Feedback would be good, and distracting! You could also tell me, on a completely different subject, if you've seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and if you liked it or not. So far I'm all alone in my criticism. "Too religious for an atheist, but not enough to be saved." - me *********************************************************************** The plane touches down in the middle of a rainstorm that leaves the skies a dark grey and creates a constant background noise of water hitting the roofs and the streets. I shiver as I step out of the gate, feeling the icy melancholy and the desolation drift through my coat and seep into my body. It is the middle of the night, and though anywhere else would be deserted and quiet, the airport is full of loud noises and bright lights that hurt my tired eyes. I glance around slowly, looking for somewhere to spend the next two hours until the connecting flight leaves. A quick glance around the large terminal yields no results. Tired families are camped out in the rows of hard black chairs, and they have strewn their luggage about them, creating caves. Several travelers in business suits slump over their laptops, typing frantically to finish the report or the spreadsheet or whatever is due when their next plane lands. Frazzled looking employees stand behind the counters, speaking softly to each other, and amidst everything else, a loud, automated voice announces departing flights and safety procedures. What of the outside world that is visible through the large windows is dark and covered completely in shadows, save for headlights of a few passing cars, headed home. What am I doing here? Waiting. I am waiting. Passing time until my flight leaves so that I can meet him in a small town, to follow up on the latest report of unexplained lights or mysterious disappearances. It would be so easy to stop. The thought freezes me where I am walking, and annoyed travelers mumbling angry words are forced to move around me. So easy to stop. I could catch the next flight back to Washington, go back to my apartment, sleep, stop. I could quit. It could end now. A violent shiver racks my body and I resume my quest for a place to wait. I could quit. There is no reason for me to stay here, to follow him again. There is no reason for me to be waiting when he comes back, the essential woman waiting for the man to return. I could leave. I could disappear. What good am I doing here, anyway? Spending tax dollars to fly in the middle of the night to pursue a fruitless search, for a file that will be signed off and placed in one of the numerous file cabinets in the basement. All for the good of humanity. I find myself in front of what appears to be the airport's lounge. It's as good of a place as any to pass the time, and I pull open the thick glass door. Inside it is quiet, and I can barely hear the loudspeakers that echo in the terminal, or the rain pounding on the roof. The lounge is mostly deserted, and the few travelers that are in here don't look up when I enter. It is nice, peaceful. I swallow and make my way to the freestanding bar at the back of the room. The short, balding man behind the counter looks up at my approach and offers a hesitant smile. "What can I get you, ma'am?" Ma'am. I tense, realizing this is the first time I have been called ma'am. Or at least the first time I have noticed. How old am I, to be considered a 'ma'am?' How much time have I spent in the basement, waiting, not noticing what was happening to me? My throat is suddenly dry. "I don't care," I rasp out to the man, who nods understandingly and scuttles to the shelves against the back wall. I sink down onto the glossed wooden stool, dropping my briefcase at my feet. He returns a few moments later with a tall glass brimming with an unknown liquid, or maybe a combination of several. He offers to me with a shy smile, and waits there in front of me as if he expects me to ask what it is. I don't. I don't care. I smile tightly and he nods, backing off into his corner, wet rag in hand. The drink is cool and sweet and I hold it in my mouth for a moment, savoring the taste. The small pleasure, one of the only constants in my life. I wonder if this is how it is meant to be, if life is nothing but running around aimlessly, and maybe other people just disguise it better than I do. Carpe diem and all that . . . it has to have a basis in reality. I reach into my blazer pocket for the photo that I know is there. Pulling it out, I smooth the worn edges, holding it tightly between my unadorned fingers. He is standing at one of the uncountable crime scenes, holding an umbrella. He is staring off into space as the rain pours around him, searching for the answer in his mind. If I look closely enough, I can see my arm, though the rest of me is cut out of the picture, leaving him alone. Frightening, what one glimpse of reality can reveal. I stare at the photograph that I have memorized completely. I don't remember what crime scene it was at, what day it was, but it doesn't matter. They are all alike. I reach for my glass, drinking deeply and licking my lips to catch the remaining sweet drops. Days into days and nights into nights, while my life passes me by . . . and he keeps on searching. I crumple the photo with one hand, and am shocked at the rage I feel coursing through my body. Slowly I open my tightly clenched hand, dropping the wrinkled picture back into my pocket. He looks the same. Nothing - nothing has changed since that picture and yesterday, when he handed me my plane ticket and slammed the door. And my changes are too innumerable to count, but the picture doesn't show a thing. Except for me, standing in the background and cut out from the importance, the reality, the lifeblood. I feel hot tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, and I bow my head before anyone can see. Then I realize what I am doing, hiding myself, and they fall. At first I make no effort to keep them in, relishing in the feel of my emotions released, and then my surroundings sink in and I take a deep breath, swiping angrily at my face before sitting up and letting my hair fall back into place. I reach for the glass in front of me, needing the steadiness it provides, an anchor to reality. The condensation is cool and mingles with the moisture on my palms, and I drink greedily, thirstily, trying to quench the sudden loss of control I feel at the base of my throat. I close my eyes, concentrating solely on the liquid and the sweetness and the coolness, on anything but reality. Anything but us, but him, but me. It works, but just for a moment. Then I breathe again and the glass is empty. I set it roughly back down on the wood, wiping my hand across my face, though I don't know whether I am trying to dry my tears, cool my flushed face, or erase something. I am sitting in an airport bar at midnight, drinking an unknown beverage by myself. The situation is so far from my normal behavior that it could almost be funny, if I was here for a reason different than I really am. And I still haven't made up my mind. To stay or not to stay, to go or not to go. To fight or to give up, but which is which? The bartender replenishes my glass, and I nod thankfully. Drowning my sorrows in an attempt for clarity will not accomplish anything, but the alcohol is doing exactly the opposite. It is anchoring me here, pulling me back because I can sense it, I can taste it, I can feel it. I wonder how much time I have. I pull my sleeves back to reveal my watch, and for a moment I can't focus on the tiny engraved numbers, until I blink back tears and can see again. Another hour until the plane leaves, and what have I accomplished? Absolutely nothing. One way or another. I swallow, and can imagine I am tasting blood. Staying. Staying would mean following him. Continuing to give in to him, wherever he calls, for a quest that should mean nothing to me. It should mean nothing, but now it is my quest, too. His search for the truth has become mine, against my will, and I am helpless to stop it and to stop him. To stop myself from following the pull. His words, his promises, and theirs, too. What they have taken from me, and what I am determined to get back. Even if it means playing directly into their hands. But leaving. Catching the next flight home, and transferring. No, resigning. Better to break it all at once. Resigning, starting my own practice, maybe. Free to do as I wish, without the constant fear and the worry, and the feeling that I am being dragged along, pushed along. Taken along. From the feeling that my life is being stolen from me, that the days and nights that were so long and enduring not so long ago are being lost faster than I can rebuild them. Rebuild them, their hopes, their future. I realize with a start that my glass is empty again, and I gesture to the man behind the counter. I should probably be careful, watch what I am doing, but why? What is the point? What will it matter if I have one drink or ten, if I am early or late for my flight? If I stay here long enough, maybe my choice will be made for me. Maybe I will forget and maybe I won't notice the difference. My hand shakes as I reach for the tall glass, and I immediately still it, instantly recognizing and hating my desire to be seen as strong, invulnerable. My automatic reflex to be dignified and serene. A movement to my left startles me, and I look over to see a tall black woman in a tailored suit sliding onto a polished stool. She smiles at me, and I wonder what she wants. Friendship, or acceptance? I wonder why she is here. "Hello,"she says gently, sounding calm and in control, the opposite of how I feel. "Hi," I return warily, wondering why she is talking to me. "I don't mean to intrude, but are you alright?" The words take me aback. Is my weakness so obvious? I wish that I had a shield, something to protect me. "I'm fine." "I can see that . . . but I just want to make sure you stay fine." The audacity of her words stings, and I wonder what she means by that. "What's that supposed to mean?" I reach for my glass and take a deep, defiant gulp, glaring at her. "I'm sorry. You just looked so alone and I thought . . . " Hurt registers in her eyes, and I am immediately sorry. "I see. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you that I am quite capable of taking care of myself." I blush as I stumble over my words, slurring them slightly, and wishing desperately that I hadn't said anything. She sees this and looks at me compassionately. "Alright. I'm sorry." She stands and moves to a booth at the back of the room. I swallow, feeling my head start to spin as the drinks catch up with me, and I make an effort to steel myself. I sigh, realizing that I can't make any rational decisions right now. I glance down at my watch, knowing that now my inability to read the numbers is not just because of the tears. I want to cry for the time I've wasted, for the thoughts that I might not have tomorrow. But there is nothing else I can do, and I ruefully pull out several bills, not bothering to count them as I place them on the counter for the bartender. I slide off of my stool, reaching for the counter, a pillar to steady myself as I grab my briefcase. Gate D2, I tell myself as I walk out of the door and back into the desolate terminal. My hands are trembling and I feel unsteady. I am thankful that my gate is close by. The plane is boarding now, and maybe I will be able to sleep on the flight. Escape for just a little while longer, and maybe this will be a dream when I awaken. Maybe he will not find out, and maybe I can forget my traitorous late night thoughts.