Blowout

Or Wherever Your Final Destination May Be

48 or Wherever Your Final Destination May Be The spring before my husband left me, I sat next to a flirt on the plane. He was a businessman, kind of cute, with curly black hair. I did my best to flirt back. I was so unused to aggressive men that, though I was flattered, I cringed a bit, too. “Your voice is so sexy,” he said. “What?” “I mean, you end each sentence by lowering your voice.” I realized I was not being myself—I usually ended each sentence in a question. People pointed it out all the time. I didn’t reply because I was self-conscious. I was coming home from a poetry conference. I was sitting on the left side of the plane—there were only two seats in our row. “So when did you get divorced?” he asked. “I’m happily married,” I lied. “Sure you are,” he said. “I am.” My voice was suddenly squeaky and high. “You compartmentalize,” he said. He hadn’t seemed interested when I told him I was a poet. He told me that in his job he had to know how to sum up people. He drew squares on 49 his JetBlue napkin. “Here is your brain; here is your heart, and here is your sex drive.” The latter was the biggest square. I felt myself get wet, which hadn’t happened in a very long time. I thought I never would again because of my age. “You’re a jerk,” I said. “Whatever.” He leaned over to me and whispered, “But I’d still like to take you to my hotel and fuck you.” I wanted to take his hand and put it between my legs. I wished I were wearing a skirt instead of jeans. “I’m going to ask to be moved to a different seat,” I snapped. “No, you’re not.” I tried to look as much like a stone as possible. I kept my eyes in my lap, wishing I had a book or magazine. We sat in silence for a long time until I finally fished out my headphones and clumsily plugged them into the armrest between us so I could watch the TV. I stared at CNN and soon I heard the flirt snoring. I turned to him in his window seat. He was more ugly than I originally thought. His shirt was polyester not cotton. Probably middle management . I was middle-aged. This was my future, I thought, if I left my husband . I didn’t know then that my husband had plans of his own. The flight attendant came by to pick up our cups. I shoved the flirt’s napkin , his sloppily drawn squares, into the trash bag she held out. 50 The stranger didn’t wake up until touchdown when a young woman’s voice on the speaker wished us a safe trip in Fort Lauderdale or wherever our final destinations may be. The man gave me a big smile, as though we had spent the night together and he didn’t regret it. His teeth were straight and white—he was the kind of man who, as a kid, wore braces. I was the first to hop up and get my luggage from the overhead bin. As my sleeves pulled, I felt my shirt rise. I wondered if the flirt could see a strip of my belly skin. For a second, I imagined his fingers reaching for my button, my zipper. He said something like I had one last chance. I said something like I had to get home to my husband. Then, without looking back, I pushed my way down the aisle—the metaphor not lost on me. The steward blessed each of us, thank you and have a good evening. I bolted to the taxi stand like a late bride. ...