I was on my way to the airport this morning when the petrol light went on in my car. I looked at the gauge. It was well past empty. The needle hovered at the bottom and I questioned the possibility of getting to the airport. To make matters worse, traffic on the M8 was at a standstill. As I pulled into the airport, I breathed a sigh of relief; my little Polo got me there. Thank God for German engineering.
I got a text from my colleagues at the airport, then another. By the time I got there, the flight was boarding. The phone rang again, it was Ori telling me that the gate was closing. As I pushed my way past security, my shoes set off the metal detector. Damn those three inch heels. After being frisked by the overzealous security staff and the retrieval of my shoes from the conveyer belt, I ran Hell for leather for gate 12. People watched as I bolted past then, my heels going “click clack” on the tiled floor. I was suddenly grateful for the time I’d spent on the treadmill at the gym this week. My sprinting skills didn’t let me down. The threatening announcement came over the speaker, “Will all remaining passengers for flight BAXXX to Gatwick please report to gate 12, this flight is now boarded. Any passengers not at the gate with a valid boarding card in the next two minutes will be refused travel on this flight.”
With seconds to spare, I threw by boarding card at the attendant. I gasped for breath and found Ori at my side. He had sent Paul onto the flight and waited behind for me. We wandered up the stairs to board the plane. We settled into seats, apart, since there were no assigned seats and none remaining side by side. I spied Paul a few rows away, a sly grin on his face as he shook his head at me.
In the evening, having returned to Edinburgh after our London meetings, I saw my precious Polo waiting for me, the petrol needle still taunting me. I willed it to go a little further, just to the garage, not a quarter of a mile away. As I reached the airport exit I saw a tailback up the A8. God, I’m screwed, I thought. But, no, my wee car got me there.
By the time I got home I realised that I hadn’t spent a full week in Scotland in three months. I lit the fire, cuddled the cat, kicked off my shoes, turned on the television and collapsed on the couch. About an hour later, the cat brought me a present in the form of a tiny mouse that took me the better part of forty minutes to catch.
There’s not much left. Exhaustion is kicking in. I’m running on fumes and the fill up station is upstairs in the form of a duvet and a set of pink flannel pajamas and bed socks.
Writing Prompt: Running on Fumes