It is that time of year again. Time for another world meeting. For nations all around the world to pack their bags and fly/train/swim to some lazy bum's—er, I-I mean—host country's place to catch up with one another and discuss current global issues. At least, that's what any prime minister or president or premier or whatever will tell you.
I hate going to world meetings. It's the same thing every year: nations fooling around, folding paper airplanes out of their documents; some of the more powerful ones picking on weaker, nondescript countries; my brother babbling about superheroes while his ugly-browed boyfriend tells him to shut up; a certain cold-climated semi-neighbour of mine trying to dismantle all the faucets in the washrooms (what on earth?)… The list goes on and on. Sometimes, even gunshots and angry German yelling isn't enough to restore order.
And anyway, I think, as I vehemently wrench my suitcase out of the trunk and dump it on a trolley, it's not like I'm even needed there—when was the last time anyone listened to anything I said? Or even noticed me sitting there, for that matter? If not for my boss insisting that I go, I would be relaxing at home with a nice mug of hot coffee in one hand and the TV remote in the other. And it would save him a few thousand dollars, to boot! But, of course, no one ever listens to me, my own boss included. Well, fine. I grit my teeth and force a smile for the woman at the baggage check-in counter. She may be the only nice part of my entire trip. I've already resigned myself to this stupid regime; might as well stop fuming about it, lest I get a stroke mid-flight and die.
Besides… I would get to see him again.
The baggage lady sends me a worried look. "Sir, are you okay?" I jump. Her voice startles me out of my thoughts. I look down. She is holding out my passport and boarding ticket. Mumbling a quick thanks, I take them and wander off, following the "SECURITY CHECK" signs tacked to the walls.
How has he been this past year? I cannot help but wonder as I empty my pockets into a plastic bin. I undo my belt. Is his economy doing well? Has he changed? Will he smile like he always does, that trademark crooked sneer, his ruby red eyes twinkling with mischief? The security guard gestures at my shoes. I take them off and set them in another bin. The linoleum floor feels cool through my socks.
Will he remember me?
The moment this thought surfaces, I immediately wish it hasn't. I already know the answer anyway, and it's not a happy one. As a lump rises in my throat, I try to distract myself from my pain by meticulously sliding my laptop back into my bag. All this does is elicit an odd look from the old man behind me. I apologize and hastily pick up the rest of my belongings as they come out of the X-ray machine.
Like hell he'll remember me, I think as I order an iced tea at the bar. My hand trembles a little as I grip the cold glass. Sometimes he irks me so much. He doesn't attend the meetings, but during our breaks I always see him in the lounge, chatting with other nations over a cup of coffee, that silly grin on his face as he laughs and jokes at pokes fun at them. It makes my chest ache to see him there. He seems so happy hanging out with those other people. Even though he has me.
Even though he has me.
I raise the glass to my lips and realize I have already drained its contents. I set it down with a sigh. What I wouldn't give to have him once, just once, even once, come up to me and talk to me the same way he does all the others. I idly poke the drops of condensation on the sides of the glass. What makes them better than me? What do they have that I don't? That makes him enjoy frequenting them so much? And barely acknowledge my existence?
They annoy me so much. All of them.
If only I didn't have to go to these meetings. These stupid meetings that don't listen to what I have to say. That don't even give a damn whether or not I'm there. Maybe then I'd stop having to see that insensitive jerk fooling around all the time. But, a nasty little voice in my head snivels, as I quietly sip another drink, you're just going to find other excuses to see him, aren't you?
Shut up.
The huge clock on the wall reminds me it is almost time to board the plane. With a sigh, I finish my drink and pick up my valise to leave. I should stop thinking about this. That ugly black feeling in my chest is coming back. Checking my ticket, I head for the gate. Already a small line is forming before the door; I join the waiting passengers. Thoughts of him, of those imbeciles he chooses over me, of this damn meeting, at which I'm just going to be ignored yet again, of him, weigh heavily in my mind.
I smile bitterly.
Ben, let's get this over with, shall we?