Nothing to Declare

I died on the plane. The nervous energy, two years of constant stimulus, all collapsed, and I with it. The stewardess said it took her ten minutes to wake me up to change planes in Madrid, and I remember nothing of that airport. I slept through the entire Atlantic Ocean.

Coming into customs, I was gripped by an unreasonable and overly generalized fury. Everyone seemed so loud and pushy and fat and self-satisfied that I wanted to kill them all. I thought of Thai people bowing in silence, the intense dissatisfaction of your comrades in Spain. And you I imagined doing god-knows-what with your husband. How did you keep something so big a secret for so long? Was that why we didn’t share an apartment? (In retrospect, I bet you wished he mattered to me as little as he mattered to you, and I begin to understand how small and manipulative we both were).

“Passport.” I loathed the little blue book. I loathed the half-shaven, triple-chinned official who didn’t say please, who looked at me like the country would be better off without my long hair and jet-lagged eyes. “What was the purpose of your trip abroad?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d suggest you change your attitude real quick, partner, or you’re going to be spending a long time in an airport holding cell.”

Standing at the baggage claim there was more room to breathe, and the desire to strangle someone abated. What was the purpose of my trip? I wanted to leave, and I wanted to follow you. So I did. For two years. Could it have been that simple? I stretched for something deeper, and found inside myself absolutely nothing.