Of love and lies

Kamara

I trudge into the little apartment on the corner of 44th street and discard all of my luggage at the door before stalking through the loft to find the little bedroom with the sellers apparently 'beautiful' view and I immediately collapse onto the plush mattress placed touching only one of the pristine white walls.

"Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.' I mumble like a mantra to myself in the hopes that it'll block the overflow of tears waiting behind my eyelids.

Was there an emotion like overwhelmed? Because I wasn't tired, or hungry, or angry, or sad, it was all four of those at once.

The morning of my flight though, I was almost 100% sure it was going to be the best day of my life, but little did I know it was going to be one of the worst.

I showed up 3 hours early to the airport the way you were supposed to for international departures, my eyes red from all the crying me and Jordan did even after we promised we wouldn't, a nervous smile on my lips, and a passport nervously clutched in my fist.

A multitude of security checks drained all my energy as I edged closer and closer to the take-off runway for my fight to Manchester. And just when I could see the planes parked through the clear glass of the building, everything began to fall apart.

"Ma'am can we please see your ticket." A smiling woman asked me as our flight number was called and we headed towards the plane. She furrows her eyebrows and so do I as a nervous pit grows in my belly. Everyone else is waved through with a kind smile until it's just me and the two flight attendants who whisper in hushed tones and frown at my ticket.

"Sorry for the delay ma'am but you might want to sit down to hear this." She says as she ushers me back to the lounge.

"The computer seems to have had an error and it over booked the plane. There was already someone in seat 12G but it gave you another ticket any way." Her grinning statuesque co-worker tells me.

At first I can't say anything, and then I think of the letter summoning me to Manchester the next day – Without Fail – and I instantly begin to panic.

"Are there any other flights today?"

"Isn't there an extra seat somewhere?"

"Can't I spend my reimbursement money on a ticket for next flight to Manchester?"

But as if the devil himself planned my trip, there was nothing they could do. There were two more flights to Manchester one in the afternoon, and the next morning at 1am but they were all booked to the brim as well.

"Your ticket was payed for by a man named Alec Dimitri. Would you like to talk to him?" The first air hostess offers and I nod as she leads me towards an old school looking telephone booth.

"Hello?" An angry high pitched voice says from the other end of the call.

"Um, Is this Alec Dimitri?"

"This is his personal assistant, what do you want?" She asks as she snaps away loudly at her bubblegum.

"I received a letter inviting me to Manchester tomorrow to display my artwork at the Art Gallery but there's been a problem with my ticket. Because of all the delays and the lack of another flight, I don't think there's a way for me to make it on time so if-"

"I'm putting you through to Mr. Dimitri right now so you can explain it to him instead." She quickly interrupts and I'm cut off by the sound of elevator like 'Your call is being transferred, Please hold' music.

Just when I think no one will answer, a deep gruff voice picks up the phone and spits back an angry "What!"

I mumble and stumble over my own tongue as I recite everything the Barbie doll Air Hostesses told me as well as my own reasoning for why I can't make it there tomorrow but as if he and his assistant were taught etiquette by the same person he just grunts distastefully and hangs up while I'm in the middle of my sentence.

"Don't Cry. Don't cry. Don't cry" I told myself as I quickly started rushing through ideas in my head of how to get to Manchester because from the looks of it, my employer didn't give two flying fucks if the plane I was in had crashed or not; Either I was there tomorrow, or I was out.

15 minutes and 6 complimentary cups of coffee later, an idea from a movie I watched with Janet Jackson finally came to my mind triumphantly. I explain it to the air hostesses and they immediately start to book my new flight to London as well as a bus ticket to take me from London to Manchester.

I checked into the flight and got into my aisle seat and I thought maybe the worst of the day had passed, but I found myself seated next to the worst possible passenger who could've ever been placed beside me. He snored, he smelt bad, he drooled, he took up all of the leg room ,and he thought it was okay to take my chocolate bar, sleep on my shoulder and constantly get up to go the bathroom causing me to stand up too.

I barely got a wink of sleep and so the second I got onto the bus in London, I was out like a light. So much so that I missed my stop and I had to wait – for an extra 3 hours - till everyone got to their designated destinations before the driver made a return trip, free-of-charge because I was literally one more disaster away from crying and the old man driving the bus pitied me.

And that's how I got here, in my loft after an obnoxious taxi ride where the driver couldn't stop hitting on me despite me constantly reminding her that I wasn't lesbian and her advising me that I shouldn't "Knock it before I try it".

"Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry." I whispered over and over to myself a thousand times as I buried my face in the grey cotton bed sheets.

And since I couldn't cry but I needed to release all of my emotions, I did what I always do best.

I sat in my furniture-less living room at 4am, and I painted.