Suitcase, check. Passport, check. Foreign currency, check. Plane tickets. Plane tickets?
I find them scattered in my left drawer. I look at the dates again, as if to make sure nothing has changed since I last looked 20 minutes ago. Flight AF019, from JFK to CDG. I have, had, 1 hour left.
In a moment I will go up to my unfinished rooftop above my Brooklyn apartment, take a deep breath and gaze at my empty Air France seat fly away in the horizon. Tonight, I will watch the plane take other passengers to the City of Lights. Then I will climb down the precarious emergency ladder and search in the fridge for an answer.
The answer is quite simple though: I booked a trip home to Paris, my boss booked a trip home to NY. At the "War" game, the King beat my Queen and I lost my plane ticket in the battle; I will stay here to attend to his Highness.
As most of you might not know since I only brag about my Ô so entertaining social life, I do spend quite a few hours a day dealing with matters only remotely related to sexual intercourse: I too have a job. (I will briefly admit here that I am the vile servant of an acclaimed artist who likes his loft clean and his subjects silent. Needless to say that even Yenta has plotted better matches.)
As a preemptive gesture, I put the plane tickets back in the drawer and accepted an invitation for tonight's wild party in Harlem. The fiesta promises to be one of these bday bash that should keep me hangover -and therefore quiet- for at least the duration of my boss' stay. In the meantime, I will call Sam to spread the "good news" and cry myself to sleep using that new long distance phone plan of mine.
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