SUBJECT: OUR ARRANGEMENT...
You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be, Gillian.
—Jake
SUBJECT: RE: OUR ARRANGEMENT...
I’m not making anything more difficult than it needs to be. I’m done. I can’t deal with how you treat me anymore. (Also, I’m pretty sure those ellipses weren’t necessary in your subject heading.)
—Gillian
SUBJECT: RE: RE: OUR arrangement...
Seeing as though I don’t treat you terribly, you need a better reason than that. Feel free to tell me in the bathroom near Hudson’s Bookstore. Terminal B. (I’m pretty sure you should never challenge me on grammar.)
—Jake
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Our arrangement...
You now treat me like a fuck-toy and a cum-bucket. You won’t even TALK to me about simple shit like the weather unless YOU feel like it.
I. AM. DONE.
—Gillian
PS—This is exactly why I never wanted to fuck a pilot.
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Re: Our arrangement...
You know seventeen letter words and twenty-one letter adjectives and you choose to use the words “fuck toy” and “cum bucket”? I don’t TALK to you because we agreed not to fucking TALK and unlike you, I would like to stick to the original rules.
You are not done, you just want to play like you are, but I’m not chasing you again, Gillian.
—Jake
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Re: Re: Our arrangement...
I’m counting on it.
—Gillian
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...
I’m giving you five minutes to get to the bathroom, Gillian.
—Jake
SUBJECT: FAILED MESSAGE. Auto Response.
The recipient has blocked all further communication from this email address.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
FUCK HIM.
COMMENTS DISABLED.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
MY PHONE HAS TEN UNANSWERED text messages from him, far more than he’s ever sent, each one acting as if things will eventually return to normal, as if I’ll still meet him for sex.
I hoped like hell I wouldn’t have to see him for at least a month, but as luck would have it, we shared a Monday night flight from New York to Milan, but I went the entire flight without so much as giving him a second glance. No matter the two times he attempted to confront me in the galley, or give me a look that made me want to screw him on the spot, I couldn’t do it. I called for a fellow flight attendant to come over so he would walk away.
The ride on the hotel van held a tension so thick I wondered if anyone else could feel it. And when he came to my room later that night and knocked on the door, I only stared out of the peephole and waited for him to leave.
As much as I desperately wanted to feel his hands on me again, as much as I needed to feel him inside of me again, I couldn’t let my feelings develop any further. I even called in sick today and am tempted to put him on my “no fly” list with the scheduling department. Very tempted...
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 COMMENT POSTED:
KayTROLL: 36 posts in three days?! Your life isn’t THAT interesting...
GATE B31
JAKE
JFK (New York)
A LINE OF CARS SLOWLY drove down Hampton Avenue in Brooklyn, honking their horns at me as I slowed my car in the right lane. A heavy rain was falling over the city, drenching every walking straggler in sight and damn near flooding the city drains.
I looked outside my window at the address Jeff gave me for Gillian—a brick building that looked more like a haunted house experiment than an apartment, and shook my head.
We hadn’t spoken since she blocked my email address, and the few times I’d seen her in passing, she’d done everything she could to avoid me. The more recent occasion, when I saw her boarding a tram in Atlanta International, she glared at me before rushing away. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was needed for a quick turnaround flight, I would’ve gone after her.
Braving the rain, I stepped out of the car and shut the door. I walked up the steps at the front of her unit and pressed the call button for unit four. The panel let out a loud, screeching sound, and then the entire thing fell to the ground.
Jesus...
I knocked on the warped wooden door, but as the winds blew by, it immediately gave way. I headed up the steps to the fourth floor and came face to face with two apartment doors, but when I saw the words “Two Broke Girls” artfully written in pink across the one on the right, I knocked on it a few times and waited.
Two minutes passed.
I knocked again, even louder this time.
“I heard you!” Someone yelled. “I heard you!”
The door swung open, but it wasn’t Gillian. It was a brunette in a bathrobe with huge red rollers in her hair.
“Yes?” She crossed her arms. “It’s two in the morning, asshole. What the hell do you want?”
“I’m looking for—” I paused. “I’m Jake.”