Sit Normal, Bigfoot

The stiff faux leather made a scratching noise as I ran my hands over the pale white snakeskin pattern of the Gottschalks‑purchased Guess bag. A silver G embedded with rhinestones caught the fluorescent lights of the airport; I angled the purse back and forth, directing the light beams into my eyes. Purchased might be the wrong word. Maybe it was stolen. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. “Liar”- even my own memories stumble over the truth and sound fake in my head.

Memory is difficult territory. Sometimes barren, sometimes flooded. It doesn’t matter. This purse doesn’t really matter. That cop at eleven o’clock with the drug‑sniffing dog does, though. He’s definitely real. I sit a little straighter, trying to tuck my Payless fabric‑covered platform heels under the Gate C5 waiting‑area seats. Think. Think. Think. How would a regular girl sit? How would I have used to sit?

I’ve done this before. I’ve been in airports, like a regular person, with my family. I feel ridiculous in this halter top; these heels make me too tall. At five‑nine, I’m already a tall girl—the four‑inch platforms are hardly inconspicuous. I think they make my feet look smaller, though, so I wear them.

He’s walking toward me now, with the dog. I panic. What the hell is in this questionably acquired purse? I’m such an idiot. Have I washed my hands lately? What’s in the bottom of the purse? Where did I put the scale? How much can these dogs smell, really?

He’s kind of cute, this cop. His sandy‑blond hair cut close to his scalp, but just long enough on top that I can tell it has a natural wave. I like the way he walks with confidence: head tall, shoulders back, scanning and aware. I bet his girlfriend feels safe with him. In another life, I would have a boyfriend like that. The dog walks the same way. In another life, I would have a dog like that too.

The fear is rising to my throat now; I can feel it tighten and heat up. Resisting the urge to put my hand there, I breathe in through my nose, willing the coolness of the inhale to temper the fire traveling down to my heart. Emotions are like memories now too- barren or flooded, nothing and then everything, equally untrustworthy. Maybe it’s fear; maybe it’s lust?  Lately, I can’t tell which is which, but sometimes I think they may be the same.

He’s not just walking toward me now; he’s walking directly at me. He’s looking at me, walking that straight‑backed, observant, confident line right at me. So is the dog. Am I scared or falling in love?

He’s right in front of me now. “Good morning, miss. Do you have an ID I can see?” The dog is sitting and waiting, eyes up at his partner. For a moment, the thought occurs to me: What if this is my way out? Can it end here? He’s so handsome and strong. I could tell him what happened. I could explain. He could get me out of here. I think he would understand, and he would want to keep me safe. Maybe this is it- love. The tight fire in my throat is spreading.

All of this could go away. Poof. We would all be together- safe, protected, confident, and tall. Shit. There it is again: is this lust or fear? Impossible to tell the difference.

I reach into the purse of suspicious origins, flip the chipped silver buckle, and dig inside for my ID. I hand it to him. A quick glance, flips it over, hands it back. “Thanks—you’re not who we’re looking for.” He turns and walks away. My heeled shoe slips out from under the seat, jarred by reflex to run after him.

And just like that, there goes my out. Poof. I want to say something: No, I am who you’re looking for! Please, ask me more questions. Help me. But I don’t. Mostly because I’m too nervous at how handsome he is, and simultaneously too aware that I’m not good enough for him, and because I’m not his type. He’s not going to help me.

Help is right in front of me but I am worried I'm not pretty enough.

In another life, maybe I would have been. In another life maybe I would remember where this ugly purse came from, The cracked fake leather erodes a little more under the grip of my acrylic tipped fingers, I can't seem to get the light to reflect off the rhinestones anymore.