Flying Home

The rain fell outside the window, and Jean stared wistfully.

Across the tarmac, a city bustled. People went to work, to school, drove home. They talked, drank, had sex, cleaned bathrooms, and all the myriad things that people do in an average day.

Jean bit his lip and wondered. Would that all return when he did? Would it all be right?

He hadn’t left on the best of terms. His partner was angry at the last minute trip. His child was angry at canceled plans. His boss was annoyed that Jean’s reports weren’t ready.

Still, you do what you have to, and Jean had spent two months away, living his life as best he could, working and eating and sleeping and calling home every few days. Sometimes people answered, sometimes not. Usually they were cordial enough.

Now he was finally finished, and he could take a few days off to recover, and spend time with his loved ones. He didn’t know if they would spend time with him, but he would find out soon enough.

The rain was letting up, and Jean was just a little sad. He liked the rain, the smearing of life outside. The way things became otherworldly. He wished it would stop, but, as he knew, you can’t always get what you want.

The announcer called his boarding zone, and Jean stood. He gathered his things and readied himself for the last leg of his journey.

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