The instructions were precise, approach gate number twelve at 4:00am sharp, give Mr. Oka your passport with 400,000rp neatly tucked in the back like grandma's christmas card minus the note.
Despite my reluctance I had no choice but to follow orders. So I intended to, but we were late, stuck in line too long. You should have printed out boarding passes like dad always does my son scolded. It was 4:12am. Everything was wrong. We were late and all the custom agents had jackets to protect against the unreasonablly conditioned air which inadvertaintly concealed thier identity. Mr. Oka became unrecognizable in the tidy line of uniformly jacketed men. I couldn't turn back. I had no choice but to walk forward. I was up next. I walked solemnly and blindly toward booth number twelve searching desperately for a sign that I was expected or recognised. There was none. I gave the man my passport first then slipped the bright red bills into the back of my sons passport. The anonymous brown man behind the counter didn't remove the bills. He looked at me and glanced at my many Indonesian stamps and chuckled as if he knew my secret but wasn't playing along. Stamp, stamp and we were thru. Easy as baked beans.
I wanted to cry or run or maybe just hide in the ladies room. But instead I sprinted past gucci bags and duty free Chanel no. 5 until I was safe deep within the magazine racks and trashy airport novels. My son happy to peruse books till we departed.
I wanted to tell someone of my relief and spill my pent up worry quietly into someone's ear. Like drops of hot wax from a candle, slow and deliberate. I opened Facebook messenger and glanced at his image at the top of my list. His overly exaggerated digitized afro filling up the circle all in black. Active 7 hours ago it said, giving me more information than I wanted to know. I started to type. Then I stopped and closed it. Resist. Resist. Like cigarettes and mento candies, something you enjoy beyond reason but must resist for the good of your health.
Stop, dwell for a moment on all that is bad. Don't think about the long intellectually indulgent chats over coffee, or the muddy jungle adventures, how his hand feels neatly tucked in yours, or how his music manages to strum all your nostalgic strings at once like we have some strange shared past that happened simultaneously on separate continents. Don't think of this. You can't have him, you shouldn't want him even if you could. Remember what is true and unfixable. He is only good half of the time. Half of the time he will loose his temper and scold you like a child for your humble failings, poking you with sharp unrelenting words. Half of the time he will not take charge long enough to sort out anything that is meant to be shared. He will leave hotel bookings and dinner in your care but will respond only with vague displeasure if not anger at your disappointing choices. "It was not what I expected" he complained regarding my impulsive and inadequately planned and executed travel agent services. He only gives you half of the affection you need, leaving you naked and wanting under the sheets and desperate to be kissed even once tenderly for no reason without expectation of orgasm. He will leave you over and over again, running off to scenic locations to share beds with other women, or simply sit in the dining room alone leaving you to ponder his absence in your shared hotel room on the beach. Remember this. He is only half good. There is someone better than fifty percent. Find 80%, search him out. Wade bravely thru the loneliness. Like the thick swamps of solitude you will eventually pass thru this. Remember that even if your white horse sinks lost in the mud you will get him back after the nothing is defeated. All is good in the end and if it is not good then it it is not yet the end.
Don't give into urges that feed a want for something that eventually will only break you. Find a new habit. Take up knitting, start jarring peppers in oil or dancing salsa. Dance, dance every day. Dance till all urges vanish like morning mist. Garden even, plant things and water them daily. Squeese your son when you need squeezing. Squeeze oranges, and drink the juice. Seek out some poor friend to inflict your thoughts on, spill them all over their open palms, like my sons cup of noodles in my lap on the plane, wet and messy. Or write, write it all out. Get it all down in black and white type. Treat it like good journalism, fact checked for accuracy and edited for clarity. Read it again and again then ask if that is in fact exactly how you feel about this situation? Confirm that it is and then release it to the world.
So what you snuck across international borders like a deviant spy in your red scarf. So what if it was dumb and stupid if full of bold triumph. So what if you made it to singapore with your shiny new immigration stamp ready to spend the day eating Swedish meatballs and shopping at ikea for items rare in Indonesia, like stainless steal pots and colored sheets. He doesn't need to know these trivial details of your life. Don't text him. Resist. Give up the nicotine. Don't take a hit and inhale deep. Quit that habit. Find a beter one. Eat salads, dance and find cherished friends to lean on. Ones that will not leave you or at least invite you with them and help you sort out a plan when they go. Quit the habit, give up getting high on his pheromones. Forget burrowing your face in his beard. Don't text him, he doesn't need to know, you don't need to tell him. You can live without that future, you have yourself, bold and fierce and hopeful. Its ok to admit you love him. But let go. Let go my dear.
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