As the seats around the gate started to fill, Augustus said, “I’m gonna get a hamburger before we leave. Can I get you anything?”
“No,” I said, “but I really appreciate your refusal to give in to breakfasty social conventions.”
He tilted his head at me, confused. “Hazel has developed an issue with the ghettoization of scrambled eggs,” Mom said.
“It’s embarrassing that we all just walk through life blindly accepting that scrambled eggs are fundamentally associated with mornings.”
“I want to talk about this more,” Augustus said. “But I am starving. I’ll be right back.”
When Augustus hadn’t showed up after twenty minutes, I asked Mom if she thought something was wrong,
and she looked up from her awful magazine only long enough to say, “He probably just went to the bathroom or something.”
A gate agent came over and switched my oxygen container out with one provided by the airline.
I was embarrassed to have this lady kneeling in front of me while everyone watched, so I texted Augustus while she did it. He didn’t reply.
Mom seemed unconcerned, but I was imagining all kinds of Amsterdam trip–ruining fates
(arrest, injury, mental breakdown) and I felt like there was something noncancery wrong with my chest as the minutes ticked away.
And just when the lady behind the ticket counter announced they were going to start preboarding people who might need a bit of extra time
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