It’s 4:30 in the morning. I’m sitting at my terminal in the near-empty airport. My flight is at 6. I’m ready. I’m also nervous. I’ve never flown alone. My heart is pounding and I’m hungry.
I’ll be back in my Nebraska at noon and I am thrilled. I just bought overpriced deodorant in the gift shop and I haven’t slept in two days. I don’t know what’s pushing me, because I have no adrenaline.
I wore black pointed-toe flats in hopes of looking chic, but at this hour, no one looks at shoes or faces. They’re focused on boarding passes and cups of coffee and making sure they don’t get caught by security.
A guy sat next to me. He sat too close. When I didn’t respond to his wink he found his mistake and now he’s stuck. He is trapped in his own ploy. He can’t get up, there’s no other seats. He’s glued by the girl who won’t flirt back.
With an empty stomach, black eyes, and jittery fingers, I continue to stare at the big metal plane being prepped for takeoff. It’ll be my turn shortly. Nerves are revving up just like the engine.