Future Tripping

She was standing around the turnstile gripping the handle to her her carry-on bag. Knuckles white. Other people’s belongings would pass her by as time stood still. Her focus on the ceiling. Looking up for a sign from above that this is the right move. She looks down to her watch. Her pulse is 130.

It was a long trek to get here. Here, not just in this place and time, but after months of imagining it.

There was an unplanned conversation where she had asked her, “Do you think we would date if we were in the same country?”

With the main form of conversation between them being long, book-length text messages, it seemed only fitting to have this daring and vulnerable conversation in the same manner.

“I’m afraid of the yearning if we keep this book open. I don’t know if I could handle the longing for something that is nearly impossible.”

“Impossible no, improbable yes.” She replied.

Improbable. She would ruminate on that word for weeks.

But now, they were in the same location, even if only briefly.

They spoke during their overlapping bookend hours. Mornings for one was inevitably the evening for the other. She taught her how to say “Holomot Paz,” meaning may your dreams be golden.

The dreams. They were the hardest. To imagine the feel of their hands clasped, fingers intertwined only to rise in the here and now to another morning across the ocean and empty-handed.

Would they even hold hands, she wondered. Or would that be an action that would increase the longing too much. For two women queer of center, the brush of fingers could be too suggestive.

Just in case, she kept her left hand in her pocket. Grasping her phone in hopes that another hand would replace the phone in a few short minutes.

At last, her oblong suitcase turned the corner. Packing was done in haste.

***

“Hi there, nice to match with you. Is it alright if I write to you in English and you respond in Hebrew? I can read and speak, but my writing isn’t quite there yet.”

“Oh, I don’t speak Hebrew. I’m in the US. English works for me.”

(But the algorithm must have been broken, she thought, as she saw that they were over 7,000 miles apart.)

“Oh, how is it that we matched? I’m so confused.”

“I’m on passport mode. I put my location in Israel. Well, and then we both swiped right of course.”

***

They would meet when she crossed customs. That fine line between where you were to where you are.

The customs agent would ask her, “Is this business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure.” She would reply even though what she wanted to say is, “Sir, I’m in the business of love.”

Pleasure…she allowed herself to picture what it could feel like to have her run her fingers through her hair while they lazed on the couch.

But then again, the customs agent wouldn’t have the time or interest in hearing the whole story.

“Enjoy your stay.”

***

She would walk through the gate into the open area with other travelers scooting along with their luggage. She would scan the layers of those laying in wait for their loved ones. Wondering if she was considered a loved one. Searching for her.

It would be her long locks that she would see first, as her head was turned looking in the opposite direction. But those lush and dark brown wavy threads that ended in a few spiraling curls leading to the tips were unmistakable. She would notice her light colored eyes that would be traced in black with flair at the edges, more stunning than what a video could ever show.

She would smile awkwardly. Her nervous eyes saying, there you are. I found you.

She would walk in her direction, suddenly unsure if she’s allowed to hug her.

That first hug would be brief and stilted.

She would tell herself that first hugs are always awkward. Not knowing yet whether that was true or another lie she was telling herself.

She would still inhale the scent of the woman she had dreamt of. That could be enough for her.

She had rehearsed this walk in her mind repeatedly. Not just the steps from the gate to baggage claim to reception area, but the steps from, “Hey you” to “I think I’m falling for you.”

“Hi,” she would say with a grin, “How was your flight?”

“Too long,” would be the reply, but she would no longer be referring to the flight. “I’m here now, finally.”

“Yes, finally,” she would answer.

***

One night, she pulled the phone closer to hear the sweet soft voice on the other line. She curled up tighter with the blankets enveloping her body. The buzzing of readiness alerts for impending sirens came through her phone. The blare of sirens rang out in the distance. Windows rattling from booms far away – yet too close for comfort. As she looked out the now still window, she saw white smoky tails of seared metal debris falling in the skies. She braced and mentally reviewed her to-do list in case the local siren rang. Their intervals of slightly uncomfortable silence gave her something to listen to amidst the sound of deep inhales and exhales.

“Do you starfish in bed?”

“I mean, I sleep on my side, with my legs splayed out. What about you?”

“I sleep in the fetal position, but my feet must be outside of the covers. That’s why it was nice when ex-girlfriends had cold feet.”

“Oh, that’s good to know, I have cold feet.”

Was that an invitation? She would wonder. Future tripping, she had thought then too.

And yet, there she would be. Ticket purchased. Flight accomplished. Passport stamped.

She would tell herself not to think of what it would feel like when their numbered days were over.

They would both reach for the luggage simultaneously. Their hands would momentarily brush with the electrified rush of static.