The Last Flight


The flop of an oxygen mask on my face interrupted my otherwise deep and much needed slumber. Cabin pressure was dropping. It dawned on me sleepily, this trip was going to end in midair.

The captain’s words confirmed our given situation. His words betrayed his emotions: “Thank you for flying with us until the very, very end. Please hold hands and enjoy your final moments.”

The years spent in recluse was not going to make me look wussy now. Yet there was this one, last thing I needed to do before completely surrendering to the inevitable.

I took my chances when the cabin lights short-circuited. I unlatched my seatbelt, and started getting off my chair.

Suddenly I heard an authoritative scream – or was it a command? I don’t know, it gets hard to know linguistic differences when you hear an engine explode somewhere.

A flight attendant was gesturing and ordering me to get back to my chair and buckle up. I dodged, and right before he could get his hands on me, a luggage compartment opened on top of his head, ending his pursuit.

I wanted to check if he was alright, but urgency forced me to economize.

The plane swung, I danced with gravity to reach the lavatory door, lock myself in there, drop my pants and sat on the thing.

“I only ask for two minutes, Lord,” I silently prayed. “Hold her steady for two minutes only. That’s all it takes for me to pee.”

And the plane steadied. She steadied long enough for me to flush and wash my hands. She steadied long enough until I got back to my row, sit back in my chair and buckled-up like a good girl should.

As the plane exploded midair, like an amateur firework, I smiled: Whatever’s left of my remains, it wasn’t going to smell like a Scottish toilet.

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