300 words about getting home

I’m flying home from San Francisco. Eleven hours. A TV screen in my face, because the guy in front of me had already decided to push back his chair as far as he could.

I shake my head. Order a Coke and Orange Juice. I always want to order more. The glasses are tiny, one gulp and the stuff is gone. I always order two. I would like to order three.

My bags are stuffed under the front chair. No way am I going to put them in the box over my head. I know myself too well to know that I would be getting up, every other second, to get something from my bag. Not because I need it, but incase I would. Maybe my notebook, for some scribbling. Maybe the Ipod for some music. Chewing gum - always good.

This time, the sneaky kid next to me got the place next to the window. Doesn’t matter – I drink so much, that I constantly need to go to the Loo. I wouldn’t want to climb over him the whole time.

The guy in front of me, with the chair pushed back is his brother. They have loud conversations. I do not get involved. What I do on a plane is to pretend I don’t speak the language. Last time I pretended I was Spanish. This time I’m german. So we sit there, 11 hours, not exchanging a single word.

Some movies later, I am awoken from my sleep, with my head on my neighbors shoulder, drooling slighty, by a stewardess. Time for some breakfast. His butter falls on to the floor. We still don’t talk. He doesn’t pick it up. Fair enough.
Home - Next day, I’m searching my bag for my Ipod. I find a piece of butter.