Dear Wigleaf,

I dreamt of you last night. We were sitting by your window, looking at the blue silver streamers in the car lot, talking about those refugee kids in Irkutsk again. I'd pretended to listen, then I'd said "Fuck Irkutsk", unzipped your hoodie, and crawled inside.

I'm sorry I only write you when I've got the horn. It's a habit. But there's something about being in airports that turns my thoughts to filth. So many passengers and—I'm not going to lie—I think about propositioning all of them to fill the layover. You'd be surprised how many make the grade. Or maybe not.

Anyway, it was the airport. Did I explain that? I meant to say: I dreamt of you when I was on the plane. I drank two gin & tonics, and three single-serving bottles of Australian shiraz, and I fell asleep with my forehead pressed against the window and the navy blanket underneath my seatbelt.

And then you were there, with your long fingers and your talk of Irkutsk.

We started making out, and when you kissed me it was as if I was in all the cities of the world at once. I'd say it felt like I was flying, but I know you hate it when I get literal. Anyway, we were there, but then we hit a pocket of turbulence, or maybe the guy next to me with those forearms banged my seat, and I woke up all of a sudden, and it was still night, and the tiny lights all the way down there were knitted together in tight gold brocade.

That's when I thought that maybe we weren't so far apart after all. Is that dumb? I'm not normally so sentimental, but I'd watched a lot of montage scenes in the in-flight movies, and you know how they make me.

Anyway, I wanted you to know: you stay on my mind.



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Read JF's story.

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