II

“Now boarding Flight PR1985 to Paris, France.” I look up at the overhead speaker and can’t miss the irony that I have just broken up with my cheating fiancé, and I am on my way to the city of love. Though after sitting in the airport for 7 hours, I am happy to be leaving to go anywhere.

It seemed that every flight that was leaving before this was fully booked. I guess the Gods don’t want me to give up on love. Either way this is probably the best place for me to go. I just so  happen to have an aunt that lives in Paris and after calling my brother to tell him I’ve decided where I was going, he gave me her number and I called her to tell her I will be arriving tomorrow morning.

And then I had to shut my phone off. I had received approximately 57 text messages, 25 missed calls, and thankfully only 3 voicemails, because that’s all my box has room for and I am not deleting them. At least that was all there was when I shut off … 5 hours ago.

The text messages, I thought, more than sufficed in conveying the many emotions the dirt bag felt. I believe he went through all the 5 stages of grief, and then some.

First came denial: “I’m going to take this letter as a joke Sloane. I’m assuming this is a big practical joke. Or you’re just being irrational because you obviously know that isn’t me in those pictures. I can explain it all I swear.”

Ten minutes later there was anger: “You Bitch! You won’t even give me a chance to explain! Obviously if I cheated on you, you weren’t satisfying me in this relationship.”

Five minutes later he began to bargain: “Please delete those last text messages. I swear if you give me another chance Sloane, I won’t screw it up. Please text me back or call me. Please.”

One minute later he called and left his depressed voicemail: “Sloane. Sloane. Please Sloane.” Dry, heaving sobs. “Please Sloane pick up the phone. I have a problem Sloane. I know I do. But I need you Sloane. I can’t fix myself without you.” More dry, heaving sobs. “The first step is admitting, and I admit it Sloane I have a problem. I need you. If I don’t have you I might as well die. I could die right now because of what I’ve done to you.”

Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at acceptance: “This is my last text. I get the message. Bye.”

That wasn’t his last message. Which isn’t a surprise since he’s a fucking liar. I think he repeated the five stages over again another time but before I could witness it again, I turned my phone off.

I don’t know if I can turn it back on. I had to sit in the bathroom a few times when the emotions were too much to handle. I also called Steven from a pay phone and once again he was ready to kick some ass. I almost let him after the angry text messages.

The cabby’s words keep ringing through my head. It’s time to go.

I join the line to board the plane, ready for this day to end. I’m happy for the free cheap box wine; it’s best for getting drunk with, in a short period of time. I apologize from now to the poor sucker who has to sit beside me and watch me bloom into an alcoholic, and possibly a weepy one. I lucked out and got an aisle seat. I feel if I stare out the window, I may want to jump out of it. Who knows if I’ll hit rock bottom after a few drinks, better safe than sorry.

As I make my way to my seat, I hope, pray and wish that it is not a good-looking man I’ll have to spend the next several hours sitting beside. Who knows what I am capable of in this state of mind! I might try and be vindictive and jump his bones, be emotional and cry the whole flight, or be volatile and bitch about some feminist shit that will only make sense when I’m drunk.

I reference my ticket with the seating, and notice that my two neighbors are two very grandmotherly looking women. Maybe they will help me buck up before landing. Or maybe I’ll just drink a lot of wine and pass out. I take my seat beside them, mustering up the best welcoming smile I can. While I’m making myself comfortable in the seat, the tallest, most handsomest man I think I’ve ever seen, begins to sit in the aisle seat across from me.

I can just see the flight lying out ahead of me. Drunk Sloane, pours heart out to two grandmothers. Handsome guy requests seat change. I continue to fidget, nervous habit, and think of the best way to sleep through the flight, while still getting all the free wine I can consume, but refraining from a drunk confessional.

A deep voice pulls me out of my neuroses. “Excuse me.” I turn to the handsome stranger across from me. “I happen to have an extra pillow and you look mighty uncomfortable over there.”

He’s nice, and he has a slight french accent. Why does he have to be so nice and sound so nice when I’m feeling so mean and venomous. Out of sheer stubbornness I decline his offer. “No thank you. I’m fine.”

Taking my cold response as it was served, he gives a curt nod. As I’m mentally about to kick myself for being a bitch, he gives me a smile. “Well let me know if you change your mind. It’ll be over here, with me, if you need it.” As he says this, he hugs the pillow and his smile grows.

Are there rules for rebounds? Timeframes? Geographical limitations?

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