A parting shot: three dollops of Moët in a waiting chilled flute. We had those nights before.

In the waiting lounge there are many languages. They tell you Thank you, go right ahead to the middle and oh, have a nice flight M’am! The ladies in blue berets rip tickets and hand over stubs with clinical accuracy. Hi, Next, Hi, Next, Hi, Next?

These continental flights: breakfast, lunch, mystery meat for dinner. And then breakfast all over again. The plastic fork (thanks to 9/11) breaks itself into soggy sauce and the low rumbling purr of the jet’s engine beneath – it only whispers to me, to you: 3,200 miles. 5 hours. Your day as my night. Slippery fingers punching out unfamiliar numbers. The phone that keeps ringing. Ringing.

My parting shot is that there are none. Really, you shouldn’t be surprised. I know as well as you, that you are in the everything; the everyday.

You are in the words that spray across my crusty legal pad (London’s rain turns all uncovered sheets crusty). You are in the worn keys of my laptop, that all fit the warm groove of my fingers (and all over the space bar). You are in the spring of my step as I walk home, hands slipped into my coat pockets. You are in the rickety train with me and the man nursing Thursday night’s hangover with lukewarm Americano in a paper cup. You are in the lines of my balled fist, rubbing my eyes open in the morning. You are in every corner, every crossing, every aisle, every shelf, every room.

You will stand in the merciless snow to play out the financial forecast for the next quarter in your head. You will roll your eyes in relish at your American classmate when he says in all seriousness that Singapore is in China. You will take out your numbers and equations with practical feminism sucked up from your well-thumbed copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s offering. You will work your summers with fierce obstinacy, turning the most mundane internships into the greatest investments. One pebble at a time.

So yes, we’ve got this distance. This uncompromising, unrelenting distance that throws echoes off the highest cliffs into blind territory. This distance that etches across scratchy Skype lines and multiple calling cards in the last slot of my wallet. Best friends for five (forever) and apart for even more. But you, the girl taking the Friday morning plane to Montreal. You will make me proud.

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