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Airport Calls

M. E. Mitchell

    You check the calendar again and pretend to act surprised. It’s April already, the season he heads north for his other life. All the things people look forward to this time of year only distresses you. Budding trees, lustrous fauna, and the hopeful anticipation that usually accompanies spring, is old hat. Been there, done that, didn’t pan out. That calendar is nothing more than a monthly announcement by which you chart your foolishness.
    Evenings of intimate farewells gave way long ago to the sound of coins dropping every few minutes into a public phone at the departure terminal. You hang onto every word he shouts at you above the background noise. See you after the Woodbine meet is over. I’ve left some money for you with so-and-so in case you find yourself short. Be well.
    Air Canada beckons him. You’re choking on the truth he needs to hear, but the operator interrupts and asks for an additional fifty cents. Forget it; he’s already bolted to the luggage check-in. How remarkably fast he moves when necessary. Even the telephone conversations are on his terms.
    You could write your own ticket with me.
     You were stunned, though flattered, by that line he sprung on you the first week. You kept him at arm’s length until he wore you down and won the game. Your cherished grand ideals nose-dived when an easier way loomed and you got that top-dog title in the end. Write your own ticket, my ass.
    You check the calendar again. It’s June now and the May call never came. An eloquent recording announces the number you have just dialed has been changed, no further information is available. Well, old girl, what did you expect?
    Between the anger and deprecating introspection, you still manage to justify a decade of waste. He is considerate; at least he made sure so-and-so keeps you supplied with a stack of Diazepam scripts.
    As the yellow pills work their magic, that disquiet in your head begins to ease and you realize Anne Sexton was right . . . you are a watercolor, you wash off.

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