Fuck, the cat

As the plane climbed, my heart sank. It bottomed out. A cold sweat slid up into my hairline. We were on our way to the Galapagos Islands. I was 50. She was 54. This was our dream. She was gripping my hand, wide-eyed. Such happiness in the pupils. I love you, she mouthed. Cancer-free. So many years ahead of us. Trips upon trips upon trips upon trips upon...

Fuck, the cat...

I should say something. Come clean. Spill the beans. Call Jim, our neighbor. Tell him to check the lock-box. Give him the code. Give him logical reasons. By default, give her logical reasons. Sometimes... shit happens.

The plane was now cruising at an altitude of 33,000 feet. The dome of the heavens up above; the ruffled ocean down below. A bag of nuts in my warm hands. This bag of nuts was impossible to open. Then it opened. Nuts went everywhere. She laughed. I laughed. The stewardess walked by and laughed, and the Rabbi seated across the aisle laughed, and in fact everyone was in various stages of laughing all the way through the plane.

I picked a nut out of my rum and coke.

She sipped at her tomato juice, dabbing her lips with a small napkin.

The Rabbi struggled with his complimentary headphones.

The Galapagos Islands was home to a stunning array of flora and fauna.

The lock-box was buried deep in the clutter of our basement.