This week’s prompt:
A pilot, a vacation, a can of tuna
Gillian took off the jacket and pulled the regulation tie loose as soon as she was in the taxi. She sighed with relief. Not physical relief, the tie was only mildly uncomfortable; it was the mental relief of being on vacation. When had she last taken a vacation?
It was one of the things about her job that surprised her. When she became a pilot, she thought she would be seeing all these exotic places and amazing sights. Instead, she mostly saw the inside of airport lounges and long lines to get through security, even with her crew credentials.
For the first five years she was stuck on regional routes. OMA to LAX, or ATL, or ORD. Back and forth to the same cities day after day. It was no different from driving a bus. A really big airborne bus, but the feeling was the same. She no longer dreamed of traveling for holidays and vacations, now the only thing she wanted to do was go home for an entire week.
The taxi pulled up in front of her little white two story house. It sat on a hill overlooking the road, like the rest of the houses on her street did. They were all neat, a trim, nothing fancy or flashy. Just home. HOME.
Gillian swiped her card, left a tip and puled her bag from the trunk. The car drove away, off to find another fare. She hauled the heavy bag up the battered old concrete steps and rolled it up onto her porch. The storm door squeaked as it always did, and Gillian thought how she needed to oil the hinges. She always thought that and never did. Her keys jingled and rattled as she unlocked the door and she was inside. Home for five straight days.
“Abigail, I’m home!” She called out as she shut and locked the door behind her, leaving her bag propped up against the wall and kicking off her shoes. She leaned into the stairwell and called up.
“No need to sulk, I already know I am late. Come down here and we can have dinner.” Gillian did not wait for a response. She headed into the kitchen. Grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the fridge before opening the cabinet. She pulled out a can and plugged in the can opener.
Like magic, she heard Abigail approaching from somewhere deeper in the house.
“Hey there, honey,” Gillian said with a smile, turning around. “I missed you.” She placed the open can of tuna on the floor and smiled as the fat grey cat stuck her face in it and started to purr loudly.
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