I'm sitting in a row of seats, waiting to board. Everything is clean and seems so temporary. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail, I'm wearing my busted up Merrill's, a tank top, and knee length shorts. My paper is folded over and I'm completing the word jumble. The picture of a field scientist. I'm on my way to Peru. I'm almost the combination of an archaeologist and a romping jungle freak by the looks of it. My brow is furrowed in concentration.
You sit next to me. I hardly notice, although because I like my space, I'm slightly annoyed someone decided to sit next to me. You say hello. I look up. My face slackens as I look up. I don't even know what to say. I mumble hi back. What would our conversation be like?
Would you try to force it? Would we even acknowledge each other? I wouldn't say hello first. Would you pretend you didn't see me? Would you hide? Would we sit next to each other on the plane, bidding good bye at the next gate, different lay overs? Would I be mad? Would I be sad? Would I be indifferent? Would I ask you how you are?
I know my stomach would twist. But I can't even think of the words I would say. So much time has passed. So much has changed. I'm so much the same, but so much different.
Will I ever see you again?
Does it even matter?
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