The Gravity of What Has Gone (6)
Standing in the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, surrounded by embracing families, looking out into a world painted grey-white by driving slush, the weight of it all hit me.
I didn’t know what I was doing.
I’d been fueled by anger and one good hunch and sheer self-preservation, a gut-deep feeling that if I stopped I’d die. But it was nothing more than a fantasy, like the recurring dreams where I saw Jason on the street and we ran to each other, arms spread wide to embrace. I wasn’t going to save him. I was going to wake up and he’d still be gone.
“Excuse me.” Someone touched my arm.
My throat caught, and I realized I’d been moaning. I turned to apologize and saw my seatmate from the plane.
“Are you all right?” She smiled, but her eyes squinted in concern. She seemed normal now; maybe she just got weird on planes because she was afraid to fly.
I tried to answer and ended up making a strangled noise.
“There’s a bar at my hotel. Can I buy you a drink?”
I nodded mutely and followed her out into the storm.