Escaping to Ireland

Vinessa:

Vinessa:

"Time to go," I sighed, patting Fido, my roommate's dog, on the head, taking one last look at my apartment, home for the past five years. 

The morning light reflecting off of the hardwood floors in our two-bedroom apartment. The flat-screen television I won through a college raffle drawing on St. Patty Day hangs on the living room wall. P.S. I love you and Leap year; sit among my DVD collection that lines the wall below it, six mismatched chairs- vintage feel, are pushed into the dining room table. And my plain, favorite green sweatshirt lays on the back of the sofa.

I had told myself if I left items behind, it meant I had to return. And now sitting at the door were my three suitcases, this was really it; I was going home.

    Am I crazy?

Chicago O'Hare International Airport is more than I ever wanted to handle on any morning; no sane person should choose to be here so early.

People bristled at me, acting like they are training for a marathon. It is a Saturday; I should be in bed sleeping right now instead of being bumped from all sides.

Personal space was all I asked for. People who I assumed at some point had manners lost them here. Apparently, they were lost among the tangled, crowded mess of people trying to find their correct gate. 

"I.D.," the check-in clerk asked, taking my ticket swiftly out of my hand; he had reflexes of a cat.

Slipping my license out of my billfold, I hand it to him, yawning as I do so.

I watch as his eyes look down and up to my face and then down again; everyone always had to take a double look, just to be sure.

Shawn use to joke about my picture, "You look like you are sixteen in it. Actually, you still look sixteen" I needed to keep my mind off of him and the events from the past week. This was a difficult task since his kind, familiar blue eyes were engraved into my mind every time I blinked; there they were. It was unfair; it was torture. It was never-ending. And there was nothing I could do to make it stop. 

Derek, at baggage claim, sighs redundantly each time I lift another one of my suitcases on the scale. His sighing was drawing on my last nerve; over-packing was necessary for my trip home.
But I didn't need to explain this fact to Derek. I needed to be prepared, that I had no clue how long I would be home for.

And that at the ripe age of 23, my life was hindering on unplanned, I was living on the edge. Day by day is how I would take life from now on, or so I kept telling myself.

My dragged out goodbye with Fido caused me to run behind, and I was desperately trying to make up for it.

Planning my life minute by minute was more like it.... 

It was my own fault for thinking I could get to O'Hare an hour before my flight and make it on time.

My pace slowed, standing in line for security, but my mind was still racing, this use to be the time I could turn on the news, and there his face would be...

No, not now. 

Standing behind the black rope, the security guard yells "Next" twice in my direction, causing the very impatient, heavier set gentlemen behind me to nudge me forward.

Personal space was a huge issue; a bubble was needed to feel safe at O'hare. Mr. Impatient had the nerve to let a small gruff out as he put his shoulder into me; where we at a frat party?

The thought of yelling "gun" and pointing at him ran through my mind briefly. It would almost be worth the consequences to see guns drawn on him. The consequences meaning I would be stuck in America, with superior problems... Since I am not an American citizen...

Instead of acting out, I throw my shoulder into the man with bed head hair; before I step forward, I.D. already out.

"Rough morning?" Ralph, the security guard, asked me, handing me my I.D. back after he had double-checked it twice.

"You could say that," I said, stepping around him to take my shoes off and place them in the bins. I push myself to stay focus on the task at hand of taking out two more grey bins and set my personal possessions in them, four-leaf clover ring, sweatshirt, purse, i-pad, watch, carry-on bag. My bins shuffle down the conveyor belt as the technician watches the screen gravely.

"Next," The woman guard shouted in my direction. We were like cattle being led to their slaughter. "Arms up," her gruff voice lets me know she is not messing around. I raise my arm as the machine starts from my head dropping down to my feet and back up, scanning me for any contraband,

Stay focus. This had been a challenge since everything had changed, since my world, as I knew it, came crashing down, making me dart back to my real home. Away from Chicago, away from everything I knew, and it was all because of him: Shawn. 

Maybe I wasn't thinking this all the way through. What would I do when I got there? Work on a potato farm? That was never going to happen; I wouldn't allow it.

I re-tie my black converses as my mind wanders to seven horrible nights ago when I came home in a hurry and booked my ticket for one week out. I thought it would give me enough time to clean up loose ends with my job, roommate, and overall life I had created for the past six years in Chicago.

Had I really seen the bigger picture at that point to make such a colossal decision?  

Security cleared my bins as I checked my watch, slipping it on cursing, knowing I am pushing getting to my gate on time, but my stomach demanded food.

"Next!" the fast-food worker yelled in my direction; I jumped as soon as I heard the word, my cue, not making the same mistake twice this morning. All the yelling at the airport was not needed. It was as if all airports demand chaos; it would be better if all the workers greeted us with a smile instead of acting like they are on the graveyard shift. Instead, everyone is on pins and needles, acting like they needed to sprint to their gate. This was far from the Amazing Race. 

The worker's cropped hair is too much like Shawn's.

No more thinking about Shawn; I need to stay focus, or at least till I am on the plane, safe and sound, with no chance of staying in America.

Maybe you should have gone to your gate; instead of getting food then, my conscience sneers at me.

After all, my consciousness was usually right, most of the time, especially now.

Was I setting myself up for sabotage?

I never left late to the airport before, and I never stopped and spent half of my paycheck on crappy airport fast food, so why was I delaying everything... 

My heart slows as I walk up to my gate and hear, "We will be boarding first class at this time." Thank you, O'Hare Airport, for never being on time for flights.

The sneers I received while boarding first class remind me of the sneers Shawn and I received when we used our FastPass tickets at Six Flags Amusement Park this past summer. The tickets cost fifty dollars more each, but it saved us so much time.

And life had reluctantly taught me the same lesson over and over: time was the only thing that really mattered, in the end.

I know the jumbo jet is filled for this flight; since I had to purchase an insanely expensive first-class ticket, it was the last seat available.

My neighboring seat sits empty as first-class fills up.

Warwick Oxford brown pointed business shoes come into view.

To be exact, five hundred dollar dress shoes; I know this because, of course, Shawn.

One way or another, it always came back to him...