Home: Part 6

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

July 1974

 
The airport was hot, crowded. I wanted to sleep. I'd left the hotel room early and felt like I'd been awake for two days. Sometimes the heat and humidity do that to me. Narcie hadn't wanted me to go so early, and I almost hadn't. When she'd first seen my leg, she didn't bat an eye. She'd wanted to know if I'd lost it in a war, or something, and she just smiled when I told her the truth. That's one thing about prostitutes: they accept everyone. There's an honesty about them. Some people--maybe a lot of people--believe that they are loving and accepting of others, but they love and accept only those who are like themselves. My father told me once that we're all hypocrites at some level; he might've been right. But no matter how accepting Narcie was, I still found it easy to leave her behind. I was sad about that, but sadness had never stopped me from leaving someone.

The flight wasn't crowded, and the seats around me were empty. Manila stretched out below as the plane bumped a bit during takeoff. Soon enough we were over the ocean, and when I could I reclined my seat and shut my eyes. I was glad to be heading home.