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I’M MUNCHING A FIVE-DOLLAR SOFT PRETZEL at Gate A55 when a woman with shiny black hair and freckled skin asks me to watch her bag. Without waiting for an answer, she sets her designer carry-on next to my duffel and brings her knees together.

“Can’t hold it,” she says, and smiles the smile of women who are used to getting what they want.
Suddenly an airport police officer is separating us and asking in authoritative tones as to what, exactly, is going on here.

She gets what she wants.

I watch her breeze away, focusing first on the fit of her designer jeans and then on the sway of her shiny black hair as she disappears into the parade of travelers. There’s a sign for a men’s restroom across the way, but nothing for women. I figure it must be farther down.

I look down at the bag, red and black plaid, and wonder if I have just committed a crime. Or is it more a rule of thumb? The bag is stenciled with the initials AJR and smells of perfume. I wonder how many freckled terrorists are planting bombs in monogrammed bags these days. I decide on the spot that we have gone too far as a society and that I will apply a modicum of reason to the situation.

“You’re not supposed to watch other people’s bags.”

The speaker is a stick-limbed Asian boy sitting across from me. A handheld video game rests in his lap and his parents appear to be in the adjacent aisle, with their backs to us.

“She just has to pee,” I say.

“Doesn’t matter. You could go to jail.”

“I don’t think so. It’s more of a rule of thumb.”

The boy squints at me. “I’m not talking about your thumb, mister. There could be improvised explosive devices in that bag.”

“I doubt it. It smells nice. Do you want to smell it?”

“I’m telling the cops.”

With this, the boy’s mother turns, smiles and turns back around. I get the sense she does not speak English but perhaps did recognize the word “cops.”

The boy is still squinting at me. “No need for the police,” I tell him. “She’s my wife.”

“Is not. You don’t even know her.”

“Sometimes it feels that way,” I say, and wink.

“She wouldn’t marry a guy like you.”

I force a smile. “Sometimes we get lucky, kid.”

“Then where’s your wedding ring?”

“Not when I travel. Good way to lose it.”

“You’re lying,” says the boy.

“Pretzel?” I say, holding out the half-eaten snack.

“I’m telling the cops.” He stuffs the video game in a backpack and begins to rise from his seat.

“No no,” I say, unzipping the suitcase. I reach in and pull out a handful of undergarments. I can’t help but notice a black lacy thong, thin as a pencil.

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About Andy Henion

Andy likes creamsicle Mustangs, Charleston Chews and superhero movies that don't suck. His stories have been published in Word Riot, Hobart, Shotgun Honey, Plots with Guns and elsewhere. The Devil in Snakeskins, a novella, will drop summer 2015 from Beat to a Pulp Books. He searches for the perfect sentence at andywritesstuff.blogspot.com


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