I hate routine. It’s boring and yet I work at a job that prides itself on the routine, the simplicity, the easiness that will come from using us over some other airline company two stations over. Every day I get up and dread the day ahead. I dread my blue uniform and my tight bun. I dread the attitude that I must put on for everyone, the car salesman “What can I do for you?” attitude. I dread it all. Some days I’ll something exciting will happen like I get to send someone to Bali or South Africa but not often enough to make my job worthwhile. But it is a job and I need a job desperately, so every morning I wake up and dread but go to work anyways because I must.
Today is no different than any other day I print tickets and help upset costumers with whatever they need because that’s my job to smooth it over, to fix it up. Routine. Boring. Often times at work I get yelled at for my smirky smile that I “supposedly” give costumers. I don’t think I smirk, I think I give off a causal smile that is endearing and up-beat but whatever routine-manger-boss-dude. At this point in my day after being yelled at and smoothing over about a dozen problems I will roll my eyes at my life and go on break. But today I was told that I must work for 15 more minutes before I can break so I stand there at my station and give off my enduring smile waiting for another problem to smooth over.
10 minutes…7 minutes…4 minutes…2 minutes…1 minute…
15 minutes have come and gone and I’m about to leave for break when a man walks up to my station. Darn, almost got away free and clear. I look up and I fine that he is strikingly handsome and I find that I don’t mind not leaving quite so soon. He has light brown hair that is cut in a shaggy short cut and he has a beard that hasn’t been shaved in about 3 days. Usually I’m turned off by men with facial hair but he is one of the few men that can pull off that look so flawlessly that any other man with facial hair should not be allowed outside looking so hideous. He is wearing a green button up and jeans that are just perfectly faded. Oh man, if I stare at him any longer I will beg him to take me with him on his trip. That’s how attentive he is. So I stop staring and look at him and smile my car salesman look and focus on my boring routine.

“Hi,” he says, “My name is Chris. Could you please sell me a ticket?”
I use my best car salesman voice to make sure he doesn’t leave and go buy his ticket for Anne at Delta the next station over(She is the best looking girl in the airport hands down, no one is sure why she isn’t a flight attendant yet). “Sure, where are you going?”
Then he smiles the sweetest, shyest smile I’ve seen and I almost melt. “Well, I was hoping you could choose for me. Make it an adventure; make it somewhere you would never imagine me going.”
He says this and I almost gasp at him. Am I dreaming? Can he read my deepest thoughts? How does he know that what he just asked was what I’ve always wanted to do? Has he seen my bucket list, because it’s there number one in big bold red letters. Whoa…
I collect myself quickly and say, “I can do that, sir. No problem.”
Before I can do anything he responses, “Call my Chris.” And then he gives me a smile to die for.
Chris, I think, he seems like a Chris. “Sure…Chris.” It’s a faultless match for him and it’s as I’ve known him for the longest time how it just fit perfectly.
Then I stop looking at him and stare. Where would he never go…it seems that he would never go to Sweden for some reason he does not look like the kinda guy that would going gallivanting through the Nordic countries. But no, I’m not gonna send him there. I stare a little more and then I have it the perfect spot.
I punch in the place and just as I thought there were two spot left on the 1pm flight. I book one with Chris’s name and then stop for a half a second and book the second spot with another name. I print the two tickets and scrawl the words, “Save me a seat. –Ally” on one and then with a “Have a nice flight Chris.” and an “I will thank you, Ally.”. He is off to security and I am off to my bags and my boss. I grab my bags and tell my boss that I’m leaving. He says I’m only leaving if I’m fired and over my shoulder I tell him I quit. Then I’m off to security after a man I know nothing about except he is off to Savannah, Georgia.