The Reunion: A Forecast by Suejin Suh

 

The Reunion: A Forecast                                                                           by Suejin Suh

 

 

Has it been more than three years?  Three or four years-ish since you cleverly sang,  

At the airport, we’ll cross paths walking, walking towards opposite ends/ like almostly- forgotten lovers who had seeming common sense.” (They lusted. Lusted incensed.)

 

Or was this an impromptu melody I made just from pretend memory? Where were the other lovers you left in no extravagant hurry? You crooned on, not missing a beat, not looking at me, You’ll be at the airport with your husband a child or children in tow— maybe twos, sevens or threes. (Does math really matter when your forecast is untold?)

 

I closed my dry contact-lensed eyes, waiting to hear your rendition of my airport reunion song. Who were they— this “airport family-to-be”? I had trouble imagining exactly—which of the two forgettable back-up singers was I supposed to be? Please kindly remind me which one you didn’t want me to be—the beautiful apron-less wife, to the right? Or was I to be the eager baby-faced woman, on the left—doe-eyed (no headlights in sight?)

 

Could you help me now to rehearse my bird-chirp, my love-like sing-along-ling? Oh, will you listen to my redemption of our re-mixed reunion? Are you ready? I must warn you I’ve regularly been missing, practices.  Can you hear my heart beating? My beatific heart rhythm? Dance a little for me—you can strut, you can saunter—no, no, pump the beat up reggae man. HUH?-huh?-HEAR? me? I can see, yes I can. Why don’t you stir it up, little retard, little… are you ready to shake it off? Play one more…right. Slow swaying, no dry.   

 

Ah, yes, you could dance. I’ll cover my eyes. (Yeah, right.) Actually, when I open my eyes, I see I’m not in line—I’m flying coach, shifting stiff-necked, smiling at the air hostess, telling her “I’m fine.” A female voice announces, Please remain seated with your seatbelts securely fastened. We’re afloat in pockets of sudden gusty bounces. Everyone remains seated unconcerned, unaware of people in airports, who are checking in their luggage to a similar budget sky motel. The people are waiting, waiting in line—“Next! Yes, sir-ma’am, would you like the deluxe suite, seat is number four-oh-four?”

 

Meanwhile you, you’re waiting like you’ve done this too many times before— at the baggage claim, standing like those around you, waiting impatiently and bored. You roll your eyes, wishing to abandon your suitcase or let it go missing, get stolen. You could sigh in relief, walk away unencumbered, propelled out of this Earthly remake of Hell— bystanders, collectors at a horse-free, each-person-personally-tagged-baggage carousel?

 

I tap the small screen set in the seat in front of me. I tap through the menus, craving a familiar face, a happy-to-see-me voice, an unrehearsed display of affection. I resign myself over to a Schumann Carnaval, start to wonder about your latest lover. You know—the promised One. The one you promised me. Will she be there at the airport?

Is she waiting at arrivals to drive you home? Will she wait by the phone somewhere in Rome, New York? Or is she hot-cooking in the kitchen, vengefully roasting a stork?

 

Yes, yes, truth-behold, I imagine I will despise her. She must be long-legged, teen-like feline slinky tease. Her glossy, puckered lips appease me. Kitty, pretty. Kitty. (Please).

(Sigh) You’re right. What does it matter now? I know, “Get over yourself. Hit the good-n-cheap sauce—get ripped full throttle.” Nah, I think I’ll chug the good stuff—grey geese will fly outta the bottle, straight and neat, choke and drown my jealousy. Yes, I will projectile vomit a million, million dirty, bile-soaked, chunky cloaked, foul feathers all over your—her, she, buxom, bouncy supermodel perfect, perfect silicon derriere! 

 

Wait! Wait! How can I still hate you? After three so many years? Well, I’ll tell you baby, hate’s a long, long song where everybody’s trite and no one cares about what the hell went wrong. In our cross-referenced his-her story, you doused me in your music, I doused you in my sex. We had it out, we got, got it on—again and again. You know what though? Fire’s not so funny? It’s more sorta Ah-Ah, Burning! It’s a lot closer than the Sun. Lovers fires burn. Burn like the Sun, persistently, beautifully unaware, undone.

 

The heat must be getting to me. I forgot we were in an airport. No sorry, wait, it’s an imaginary airport with a plane-lined runway—in my delayed, noise and air-polluted imagination. Where are you and that perky-breasted…forgive me, I enjoy waiting room moments to unravel, rest, digress. Right… Where were we?... The once upon an airport. A heroine? A girl, girls, girls, girls. A stewardess, Ms. Blah, blah, blah. Pull the needle. Scratch. Pause. Hold your applause. This is my remix, rendition, my song I’m gonna tell you where I am, I’ll spare you where I’ve been. This morning I woke up to my mistress, her name is Summer. I turned to her, her face turned to me, her eyes smiled angelically in mine, like an angel who might sing, “So long! Farewell. Auf Wiedersehen. Good bye!”

Steve CannonTribes