Memento Mori| s. geto, s.gojo

ᴊᴇᴛ ʟᴀɢ's ᴀ ʙɪᴛᴄʜ [𝟶𝟷]

Start of Summer, 1993

Economy flights had to be the most ruthless villain known to mankind. Your chest immediately felt lighter upon admitting it. Here you were sandwiched between a snotty toddler and a snoring sleaze whilst your parents tipped their glasses of prosecco in first class. The air was stuffy and tight, and the mild turbulence that had been present at the start of the flight still had your stomach clenching. It churned with that terrifying fear that you were not going to make it off the flight alive. Of course, it was complete irrational. You were most definitely surviving this flight...the rest of this summer? Not so much.

The toddler had tipped their apple juice over and the sickly drink had congealed somewhere between the fabric of your seat and your denim shorts. You would have gotten up to the bathroom to inspect yourself if it hadn't been for the so-called "sleeping" man in the sweaty business suit who was leaning up against you.

 With every dip in the air his head dropped just a little closer to your shoulder. His uncomfortably warm breath did not only tickle your skin, but it made it want to peel off your body entirely as though it was a corrosive toxin.

Restraining a gag, you shoved his body away from you for the umpteenth time. The guy was middle aged, considerably overweight and with a wedding band in his left hand that told him he should know better. But people were better at ignoring their consciences than you thought they were. Part of you contemplated what he did for a living, what was really underneath the suit he donned, but on further thought you wrinkled your nose and turned away. This man had a wife and instead spent his time in flights rubbing up against teenage girls like a dog in heat, you decided you would rather not know about his livelihood.

So, with that dismissal assessment of your flight companion, you then turned to the other. The little boy can't have been more than three or four years old, but by heaven did he have the kind of pipes on him that even opera singers would be jealous of. Since take-off, he had done nothing but cry, blubbering about the fact he was separated from his mother who was only on the other opposite isle. However, just like the young family, everyone on this flight had also paid their fare, they weren't obligated to move.

Now in hindsight, you wish you would have traded places with the mother and sat next to the hippy-looking guy in the window seat. On the bridge of his nose rested some pink rectangular glasses that matched in tandem with his flamingo pink tank top. He seemed to be the kind of guy who'd force you to sign a petition that would get in the way of your shopping trip. So perhaps not the best flight-buddy?

Sunglasses guy over there would probably sit and talk your ear off about how the earth was getting hotter beyond scientific control and soon Antarctica was going to start melting or something along those ominous lines. Techically, it was something that should worry you, but you weren't a radical, nor a conspiracy theorist so you didn't feel like it was an issue you were meant to engage in. Besides, it was a situation for a later generation to solve. You didn't drop plastic bags in the ocean, nor did you litter, was it such a crime to sit and want to enjoy your youth for as long as you possibly could. Summer could only last so long, couldn't it?

The juice your bottom was squashed against was beginning to make your leg itchy, and your glancing around was not providing a good enough distraction to how uncomfortable you were. Reaching down to loosen your buckle, your nails pressed against the cold, clinking metal until a resounding ding! stopped you in your tracks. 

Blinking upwards, you caught sight of the seatbelt sign above your head glowing. It did not take long for the pilot's voice to spread through the intercom, rousing the pervert besides you to open one muddy brown eye, and hush the child on your right into submission.