*

*

Three businessmen absorbed in their laptops are the only other passengers on this flight.  My seat is toward the front of the small private jet.

“My cousin David bought my ticket,” I tell the flight attendant.  “He’s really rich.”

The flight attendant isn’t interested.  “Landing in Paris,” he says, bored.

The plane does a sharp descent, ending in a bumpy landing.  I have with me my cat in a carrier, my guitar, and a rolling suitcase.

“Will you help me with my stuff?” I ask the flight attendant.

“No,” he says, turning away.

I struggle down onto the tarmac, where I no longer have a cat in a cage but a small curly-haired white dog on a blue leash.  The dog pulls the leash out of my hand and runs away.

I wonder how to say “catch him” in French.  I could call out “stop!” but the verb for “catch” isn’t accessible.  Do I know it in Spanish?  No.  Recouper? No.  Aha!  Attraper!

A woman waiting with her family intercepts the dog.  A pet carrier appears so I lock him in it.

Then I go into the crowded waiting area where people are standing because all the seats are taken. 

Where am I going?  I don’t know.  Somewhere in France?  Maybe to the Languedoc.  I’ve been reading about the early heretical Christians who once lived there.

So I sit on my suitcase and wait with my guitar and my dog.  Or is it a cat again?  It is too dark to see.