Pulsing whirr of jet engines. Exit row, seat 36 A. Drink in hand. Approaching contentedness.

Raindrops upon window pane. Hour one stuck upon runway. Pulsing whirr becoming objectionable. Attractive woman tearing-up at inability to afford internet access. Hand on my wallet. Pilot expressing gratuitous apology.

Hour two. Bloody Mary squared. Water torrents. EKG lightning storm.  Pulsing whirr now resembling aggressive underwear. This is your Captain speaking in tongues. $15 dollar cover charge to become a white knight. Woman expresses gratitude, verbally.

Three hours in. American law states passengers may not sit on runway more than four hours. Customer in 36 A astounded by FAA courtesy. Bloody Mary three lacking celery. 36A offers cynical expression. Stewardess returns cynical expression. Pulsing whirr part of DNA. Heaven continues to piss.

Three hours twenty-seven minutes. Vaginal-like opening in the clouds. Pulsing whirr churns into ascending roar. Ground fading, like looking through binoculars backwards. Head 36 A, feet 36 B, invasive metal seat-barrier uncomfortably rectal. Woman on internet drooling and unresponsive. Stewardess ignoring drink request. Pilot possibly Charlie Brown’s parents. Neck cramps commencing.

London beckons.

By ccxander

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