I Love Planes

I've written several monologues revolving around a play I was writing last year, which I gave up on. I produced some all right work on it, and since I leave my job this Friday I need to remove it from the work comp and put it somewhere accesible, i.e. my blog. This is one of the monologues "Fear of Flying".

Ana is in the airport terminal. The arrivals and departures board is over her head, updating every few seconds. Airport sounds, people walking past in the background. She is pacing, smoking a cigarette and speaking to the audience.

Ana:
I’m going. I can’t believe I’m going. But I’m doing it. You’d think it’d get easier, right? Do it enough times and you start to feel safe. It’s never that simple. I’m thinking about it... right now... and my foot is ticking like an insane clock. Too much coffee, probably. No.
I got the fare really cheap so there’s no cushion, I mean, refund, free change of date, no, nothing like that. I’m not even sure I have travel insurance. I hate planes. I can’t think of anything more idiotic than a huge missile shaped tube of jet fuel with a bunch of people trapped inside, whizzing through the transatlantic air on momentum and a complicated system of wires and computers. It’s not even like it’s a direct flight there. 2 connections. TWO goddamn connections. TWO reasons for them to lose my suitcase. That’s FOUR more take-offs and landings and that is FOUR times the chance that the plane will explode with me in it.
The first is an 8 hour flight. The middle isn’t so bad. Once I’m up in the air I take a count of all the air-hostesses and make sure to ask each of them only once for a bottle of wine. The wine is shit, but it does the job. If I play my cards right I’m passed out cold for at least 3 hours of the flight. I’m still working on being able to sleep through landing.
There’s always that initial relief, after the plane stops floating on inconsistent, bumpy air and starts grinding sweetly against the gravel of the landing strip. I always feel like a sailor who has been at sea for months, finally able to feel stable ground beneath his feet.
The comfort doesn’t last long. If I somehow manage to avoid brain damage from the waterfall of suitcases during the mad-rush to exit and get through customs, then comes that other feeling. It’s the anticipation.
It’s knowing that he is closer. We are in the same building, the same terminal. How will he look? How will he think I look? Will we feel different when we see each other? Will he even be there? Did I remember to give him my flight number? Oh, God.
So you just imagine the state of mind I’ll be in once I go through customs. If I’m lucky and manage to get through without being questioned by border police (a scary breed of cop), I walk towards the gate.
I can really picture it now, the sea of faces. Signs of livery cab drivers, Mr. So and So for Such-and-Such company, families, flowers, balloons, tears, languages saying hello...
Then there’s him. That first catching glance. I wonder if we’ll run towards each other, slow-motion like. A perfect movie. He’ll be handsome, no doubt. Business casual. The silly smile that only shows through the left side of his mouth as his left eyebrow goes up in unison. The sigh of relief as we feel what it’s like to be in each others arms again after long months of separation. Walking away from the terminal, oblivious anymore as to where we are, enraptured with only each other.
I love planes. I love him. I love the planes for bringing me to him. And this time, this is a one-way flight. No countdown of days until the next “See you” no watching each other walk through the security check, no soft airport sobbing. Just hello, over and over...
This won’t be so bad. I’ve done it before.