“Always the gentleman,” she said.
“So, I see you next week?”
“Only if you want to.”
“I got a lot on my plate right now, but I’ll call… I mean, I’ll e-mail you over the weekend.”
Before she left, she made sure to kiss the good doctor on the mouth, not only to show her appreciation, but also to remind herself that she wasn’t a prostitute.
As the yellow taxi, once more, passed the entrance of the tall building, the driver must have been relieved to see a person in front of the entrance matching the description given to him: A smoking-hot blonde with a beige purse.
She saluted the taxi driver and then threw her cigarette onto the sidewalk.
The first thing she noticed upon entering the vehicle was the taxi meter, and that her ride had so far cost her about seventy dollars.
“Thanks for waiting for me. Not a lot of people would do that,” she said. “I hope you can forgive me?”
The driver seemed to check his rearview mirror for sarcasm, but she made sure he didn’t detect any.
“As long as you showed up, then I have no problem.”
“There are people who just don’t show up?”
“Some people.”
“That’s so disrespectful,” she said. “Not only do they waste your time, they steal your gasoline as well.”
The taxi driver seemed to be nodding in agreement.
“I only have cash,” she said, and then ground her teeth in the rearview mirror for the driver to see. “Two hundred-dollar bills.”
“Okay.”
She rolled her eyes as she heard the taxi driver’s inconclusive response, but she made sure the driver didn’t notice.
Then, it suddenly hit her.
An emotional wave, swept her off her feet and slammed her down against the rock-hard ground. Suddenly, she felt lonely, vulnerable, and small. But she anticipated nothing less. She was used to it by now. But sex without chemistry was no different from a hangover, and a small amount of alcohol would incapacitate a specific part of her brain, therefore relieving her of the regret of chemical-less sex, and the guilt of potentially creating the wrong offspring.
She decided to have a drink as soon as she got to the airport.
She knew what love was.
Love was a misinterpreted neurological reaction, caused by the release of neurotransmitters as the brain detected an individual who matched the mental impression of a childhood role model. “Love” was no more than a simple urge to remain with one’s parents as a child in order to ensure one’s safety.
Love is nothing more than emotional ripples from a childhood past, for fools to explore and for imbeciles to enjoy.
Her heart rate slowed down and she began to feel more at ease.
To her annoyance, the taxi driver probably had plenty of change, because he didn’t stop the taximeter when it reached one-hundred dollars.
Seeing the airport entry gates made her nervous about the flight, and she decided to have a smoke before going into the airport. A drink was what she really needed, but this was her last opportunity to smoke before the flight. She noticed the sign as she took out her last cigarette.
She spotted the woman almost immediately. She could tell by the way the woman walked that this person lived an unremarkable life and was going to cause a problem for sure—an assertive, know-it-all who had to meddle with other people’s lives at every given opportunity.
“You can’t smoke here,” the unremarkable woman barked at her.
“We’re outdoors, aren’t we?”
“You can’t smoke by the entrance. Read the sign.”
The unremarkable woman with gray hair, and who could stand to lose a few pounds, then pointed toward the sign on the wall.
She refused to turn her head to look at the sign. “Do you even work here?”
“No, but I can get someone who does if you don’t obey the rules.”
“What the hell is your problem, lady?” she hissed, and then stomped on her cigarette. “Get a life!”
“Those are the rules.”
What is it with people and their constant desire to interfere with other people’s lives? Is their self-esteem so low, they have to seize every opportunity they can to point out the flaws of other people in order to feel better about themselves?
She needed a drink now more than ever, and she quickly made her way to the nearest bar. On the way, she spoke out loud to herself.
“Those are the rules,” she said in a demeaning and whining voice.
Any woman would notice the pathetic loser sitting at the end of the bar, and judging by the female repellent force-field surrounding him, it appeared that all of the female customers did notice him and made sure to order their drinks from the opposite side of the bar. The spotlight enhanced his lonely and vulnerable personality and also emphasized his qualities as a human dartboard. She gave him a small but polite smile as she approached the bar and pretended to contemplate what drink to order.
“What’s your poison?” the loser instantly asked her.
She pretended not to hear him, but made sure not to ignore him. The question, however, made her think of a past encounter with a Norwegian man. When she’d asked if he was married, the man responded by claiming he was having a detoxification—meaning he was going through a divorce.
Apparently, the Norwegian people used the same word for married as they did for poison. She thought the fact was amusingly coherent. The word in question was the same word as “gift” in English, which in retrospect turned out to be very ironic, considering the Norwegian man was definitely not a gentleman.
“What’s your poison?” the loser asked once more.
“I beg your pardon?” she responded in a flawless British accent.
“Can I buy you a drink?” The loser had a startled look.
“I suppose you may buy me a drink. I was just about to order a double brandy.”
“Double brandy it is. Bartender! A double brandy for my new friend!”
The loser made eye contact with her, and then swallowed once in what appeared to be an attempt to hide his nervousness.
“So, you’re from England?”
“Wales,” she said, and looked him in the eyes.
Her answer threw him off long enough for the bartender to serve her the drink she so eagerly wanted. Bullseye, she thought, as she congratulated herself. Then she raised her glass in salute to her defeated opponent.
“You, my good sir, are a true gentleman,” she said in the same flawless accent.
She was gone as quickly as the brandy was. Then she went and treated herself to a dubious meal at a Chinese food stand before finding her gate.
The waiting area there was almost full, and people had begun to form a line in front of the counter. It wouldn’t be long before they boarded, but she still saw no sign of him. She began to wonder if he’d cancelled, but then he might have notified her by e-mail. She logged into her e-mail account using her cell phone to check whether she had a message from him, and to her surprise, she actually felt disappointed when she discovered the empty inbox.
Despite the alcohol, she still felt nervous about the flight. The alcohol didn’t erase the mental image of a horrific crash scenario. She tried to reassure herself that the odds were in her favor, and the likelihood of a fatal outcome was slim. But as she stared out the terminal windows at the alarmingly empty cockpit, her intuition told her not to get on the plane. Suddenly, she hoped he wouldn’t show up as planned, and then she would have no reason to be on this flight. She could just go home, relax, enjoy her own company, and sleep in her own bed. She began to ponder how to exit the departure hall and what the procedure was for leaving. She assumed she had to check out of her flight before leaving the airport.