Day one million

         Did I take another day off?  Oops.  I think I might have.  This might be my best one yet though.  I think it's about confidence, still.  Just keep trying everything until something works!

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There she is, talking noisily to who-knows-who.  If I had been here on time, phones would be put away by now.  Oh no, she’s talking to Kim.  He thought to himself.  That was even worse than if she had talked to Bluto.  He swore that all girls had a conspiracy against him, he was sure they were bandying death sentences and not pulling any punches.  Even worse, every time he nearly interecepted one of these conversations it would abruptly end.  He wanted to atleast know what she was talking about.

Carlo rose after his second tiny gin and tonic and readjusted himself.  In the awful Drew Barrymore movie that was airing on the TV that projected from the ceiling like an eyeball from a cartoon characters face, Drew was crying and spending a night drinking wine and eating spaghetti while watching an awful romantic comedy of her own.  A few seats down, Belinda was clutching a napkin tightly and had the same watery eyed look as Drew, who was now hammering out the numbers of her ex boyfriend on an old fashioned phone.  Or, atleast Carlo assumed that was what she was doing, because he didn’t have his little headset plugged into the armwrest. 

He decided he was going to try to sleep and immediately had to go to the bathroom.  When he reached it, the door said occupied.  Standing on a plane felt a lot like being on an elevator that was in motion to Carlo, and he clung limpid fingers onto the railing on the outer wall of first class.  Peeking in, he saw that they had nicer curtains in first class, and that small style upgrade made a considerable difference.  Biff emerged from the lavatory and wiped a handfull of sweat off of his forehead, nodding and smiling at Carlo as he passed.  was three rows ahead, noisily fiddling with his seatbelt. 

Carlo had fond memories of TV dinners, and he rubbed his hands together excitedly as the enormous cart made its way down the aisle.  He could get used to this airplane thing, he thought, as he contemplated how he was in an airtight sealed vessel hurdling at thousands of miles an hour suspended miles above the ground.  Events happened in no particular order in the air.  Connie, the server, looked like a rare bird.  How could she strut around with such poise and professionality and still maintain any kind of humanity?  She couldn’t.

“You like her, don’t you?”  Belinda asked louder than she intended to because her headphones were still in her ears.  It rung through Carlo’s bell of a head like it had interrupted a beautiful dream.  Carlo was upset at first but then reminded himself that jealousy was a good thing, as long as it wasn’t coming from himself.  Jealousy meant she was vulnerable, and that she was willing to meet him half way or better yet stick her neck out and allow him to either wound or cajole her.

“There are certain things I like about her.”  Carlo bit his tongue to stop himself from going further.  He liked that she had a job, that she seemed independent, that she might be impulsive or atleast get free airfare.  Her argyle socked leg crossed over his, uh-oh, you’ve done it now Carlo, she is going to use your sex against you.  He looked over and suddenly she wasn’t the burn-out uncool failure who tries to hard anymore, now she was that beautiful quirky sex object again.  And she had watery eyes, which the jury was still out on.

“Sir.”  Connie purred and smiled an impossibly genuine looking smile down at him.  He turned his face around to meet her, and she was leaning over his seat, not unlike one of those perpetual motion birds.

He had atleast through the end of the month, he thought.  Her father had paid the security deposit and the first month of rent, and before she became “exasperated” and “artistically compromised” (the words he was sure she would use), he would have to make things good again.  His funds which were set aside for graduate school were going to be spent on many nights on the town, going dancing.  Her costume would change completely for dancing, she was suddenly a dancer again.

He weighed the option of leaving her first in his mind.  In an episode of Seinfeld, George leaves a woman who he feels is going to break up with him before she is able to dump him.  It works out pretty well, but it doesn’t work as a metaphor in this situation he realizes because first of all their isn’t much continuity on Seinfeld, and secondly George never keeps the same girlfriend for more than a few episodes.

His eyelids peeled back like they were glued together in the middle and he caught himself in one of those half asleep half dreaming moments.  If he really wanted to stay awake in this situation, he knew someone would have to slap him in the face.  Or, he’d have to stand up.