I thought the weekend
  was supposed to end
  like a normal thing.

Pack.

Checkout.

Airport.

Goodbyes arranged in boarding groups.

No drama.

No flourish.

Just the slow machinery
   of everyone becoming
         separate again.

Then Delta offered me $120
to take a different flight.

Direct to DFW.

Tonight.

Which isn’t usually
      how a travel problem
      introduces itself

      as a gift.

The original plan
    had too many steps

    and most of them were annoying.

Fly to Atlanta at noon
    with Mari and Lih. (fun, comfy part)

Get home.

Drive back to Hartsfield tomorrow. (ugh)

Do the security dance again. (ew)

Get on another plane
    just to get back
    to Orca and Nero.

My dog.

My Jeep.

The two creatures
    most likely to forgive me immediately
    for making a calendar this stupid.

Instead: DFW.

Midnight.

Orca kisses on my face
        before sunrise,
  if the world behaves
         even a little.

Nero waiting.

Home no longer requiring
            a second act
through airport security.

Delta called it a flight change.

I'm callin' it one more lap.

Because here’s where the audible gets good:

I get to go back
  to Venice Beach,
  to say bye to Pierre.

Yes,
    maybe a

    _bit_

    of a man crush. (that hair, what can I say)

We don’t need to make this weird.

Or maybe we do.

It’s been
     that kind of weekend.

And I get
    that wonderful IPA
    with Mike
    before he flies out

    to the middle of nowhere. (that he calls "Ohio")

One more little
    unplanned pocket of time
    inside a trip

    that already kept refusing to be ordinary.

Audibles are great…
         when they work.

Not _just_ because
    they save the play,

    but because sometimes
        they give you
             the part of the day

             you didn’t know
             you still got to keep.

Then Ron piped up
     in the chat,

     typing so slowly
     we could smell it
     before he hit enter.

Which is unfair,
       probably,
       but also accurate,
       and said with affection
       for a gentleman

       we’re all absurdly lucky to have met.

That’s the thing about this crew.

It keeps adding people
     like the universe
        has a waitlist
 and very questionable
  admissions standards.

King Ron.

Mike from Ohio by way of Puerto Vallarta.

Pierre at Venice Beach.

Mari and Lih
     still threaded through
         the original route.

Me,
   somehow paid
to change plans
      and given
   one more way
to say goodbye…

      properly.

This is getting
     _way_ too fun

     to let it end clean.

So fine.

Bonus lap.

One more drink.

One more goodbye.

And then, because apparently
    the universe had not finished
    improving the bit,

King Ron actually showed up
            at Venice Beach.

Of course he did.

Cause this bonus lap needed another bonus lap.

Had a few with us
    until Mike and I
    had to call the Uber

    and point ourselves toward the airport.

Which is where Delta,
      having already turned the day into a gift,

      tried to make it weird again.

Apparently,
           I only had half a ticket.

Half.

A.

Ticket.

Thanks a lot,
       Delta app.

But then Monique happened.

Bless Monique.

She worked the problem
         like a person
        who understood
        that I had already done

        enough airport math for one calendar year.

And somehow:

28A.

Twenty-eight.

Which is a thing?

Apparently so.

Back to DFW
     at fuck-thirty
     in the morning.

Glad Mike’s here.

Glad the bars are open.

Hope I stay awake
     until flight one.

One more route
    that looks wrong—

    until it becomes exactly right.

That checkered flag
     can wait a few more hours.