Page 8 of Here for a Good Time
“Try wiped out. I’m not hungry, just going to head to bed,” I say, and take the ninety-degree-angle route straight to my bedroom without a backward glance.
A few hours later, while I’m watching the 2005Pride and Prejudicein bed, a piece of paper slips under my door, and a few seconds later, I hear Zwe’s bedroom door close down the hall.
Crawling out of bed, I use the light from the TV to read his familiar loopy handwriting on the blue Post-it:
Made chicken penang curry. Left a plate in the microwave. You did great today.
THREE
“I don’t know how else to put it: we are not arriving at the airport three hours early. We’re just… not.”
“You’re right, we’re not. We’re arriving two hours and fifty minutes early,” Zwe says matter-of-factly, not a trace of sarcasm to be found. When I let out an exasperated “Ugh!” accompanied by an inadvertent stomp of my foot, he simply rolls his eyes in response. “Real mature.”
“You know the three hours early rule is extra padding, right? Two, fine. But three is—”
“Taking into account any check-in malfunctions or ridiculous queues at security and/or immigration.”
It’s the night before we fly out, and we’ve been talking in circles on this topic for nearly half an hour. It’s been years since we flew together, and it wasn’t until now that I remember him being this strict then as well. I can now also recall that we had this same argument last time.
“Clearly, we’re at a stalemate. Why don’t we… leave at different times?” I offer. “I’ll meet you at the airport.”
“No,” he says, not even taking a beat to consider it.
“Why not?”
“Because what if you miss the flight? How the hell do I find my way to an island resort where everything is in your name?”
“Wow!” I scoff. “Why are you so certain I’ll miss the flight? Just because I want to leavean hour laterdoesn’t mean I’m going to miss the whole flight. I’m not a child.”
“I don’t think you’re a child.”
I give a dry laugh. “You just think I’m incapable of making an international flight on time.”
“It’s not you personally, and I know it’s just an hour, but a lot can change within an hour. There could be traffic.” He starts counting on his fingers. “Immigration and security could take ages. You could have trouble getting a taxi. There could—”
“Fine!” I huff, throwing my arms in the air. Zwe is as stubborn as me, and just like with me, there’s always a point in the conversation where you know he’s locking down and nothing anyone says or does will change his mind. “You win. We’ll leave atyourtime.”
“Good,” he says, but the atmosphere in the room has become anything but. “Thank you,” he adds.
“Sure. I’m going to finish packing,” I mumble as I stalk off to my room.
I don’t want to start off our big fun best-friend trip like this, especially when it’s partially a trip for me to make amends and redeem myself as a good friend, but I can’t stand being in the same space as him right now. I know erring on the side of caution is histhing,but take a survey of one hundred people and I guarantee the majorityof them would agree that my time is the more reasonable one. But that’s Zwe for you. By the book, to the extent that at times I want to hit him over the head with it.
It’s fine,I remind myself through long, calming breaths as I prepare my toiletries kit. It’s one tiny inconvenience.
At the airport the next morning, we’re done with check-in, immigration,andsecurity in under forty minutes.
“Don’t say it,” he says when he catches me checking my watch. “Better safe than sorry.”
I bite my tongue so that I don’t retort with a snarky quip. We want good vibes on this trip. “What now?” I ask. “We have nearly two hours to go.” I wouldn’t have minded getting to the airport early if we lived in Singapore or Bangkok, but the entirety of Yangon International Airport can be covered in half an hour, and that’s if you walk at a snail’s pace.
“Head to the lounge?” Picking up on my underlying irritation, he adds, “We could clean them out on finger sandwiches.”
“I do like a good finger sandwich. It’s like a sandwich, but in one bite.”
“There you go.” He swings an arm around my shoulders, and I melt. I’ve never been good at staying mad at Zwe.
After constructing a finger sandwich mountain on our plates, we settle into two large plush sofas facing each other in one corner of the lounge.
