He gets me, He really gets me

Whether it's with a best friend or your soulmate, we all have that someone-lets call him Jimmy-who is their person. That one other soul on the planet that just gets you.

In this picture, we have saved enough points to fly First Class to Texas for Sapphire Knight's Motorcyles, Mobsters, and Mayhem Book Signing in Texas.

Off-topic (See, this is how I get into trouble when I write), I've got a motorcycle ghost story, Peligro, published in the anthology mentioned above that will be available on Kindle Unlimited in August.

Okay, back to these two crazy kids. Well, I'm afraid to fly, so I had to get fabulous, and Jimmy was waiting at the bar at 0700, So you know how that goes.

Needless to say, we missed our First Class flight and ended up thrown in the luggage on some plane carrier we never heard of.

But the airport shuffle they put us through to get to this waiting area where only the pilots and, for some reason, seven-foot-tall people got to wait was bananas.

It started with a man barking orders but in a whisper, and I was high, so I kept yelling, what did he say?

Which made Jimmy keep missing the whispers. We had to jump on a moving shuttle without sides for unknown reasons. I almost lost my polka-dot backpack, so Jimmy had to carry it from there.

I felt like it was the bus for bad kids. There was no eye contact. The next leg in our journey involved walking bent over through metal hamster cage tubes. They were enclosed with wire like a 3-d model but not modern. More Tetanusy rusted.

Every cigarette butt stamped out on concrete had to be pointed out to Jimmy. "See, other people smoked here. Cover for me while I hit this vape." If I'd known, we would be waiting five hours to get on the plane to fly for three hours. I'd have made Jimmy act like a wall and cover me.

I felt like Rapunzel climbing the cylindrical stairs, but Jimmy kept smacking my butt. "You're holding up the line." After climbing a stretched-out slinky worth of stairs, we made it to the first floor.

I was still trying to figure out how that happened when we walked through sliding doors that slid backward and entered.

"The Viking Waiting Room," I said. Like it was, a showcase feature on the Price is Right.

Jimmy told me that I was at an eleven. At that point, or maybe it was all the vape begging, Jimmy'd finally had enough somewhere in our journey. Sweaty and tired, he stopped in his tracks. His shoulders sagged, and his backpack started to slide. I could see the sweat imprint on his shirt from one backpack.

"Jimmy, where's my backpack?"

I flung my six-foot husband around, prepared to frisk him.

We both said it at the same time. "You left it on the shuttle!"

My elbow started bleeding after almost eating it on the torture chamber stairs and during the run through the rusted tunnel. I kept opening and closing my jaw, worrying aloud that I would get lockjaw. And my husband sprinted across the tarmac, yelling back. "Rub some dirt on it."

Jim chased the sideless shuttle, flagging down the whispering man to get his attention before he made the two-mile trip back to the legit Terminal, only to have the airport employee whisper a warning about how he was supposed to turn in all unclaimed baggage. That's when I turned on the polka dot charm. Holding out my hand, like Oliver asking for more. "Oh please, sir."

But it was my hero, Jimmy, who saved the day. "She's a handful."

"I hear ya. Got one at home." He whispered back.

The Cali Sun wasn't kidding around with us. On the walk back to the Viking room, I kid you not, I got a hoodie tan. Jimmy got burnt.

In the waiting room, we just stole these seats. "I'm going to wrap that backpack around your neck," Jimmy said, but I didn't believe it since every word he spoke was wrapped in love.

That's when I snapped this shot.

Evidence, in case I'm found strangled by polka dots.

smooch