Skip the onion

I’ve taken this one onion, this grey-purple onion, off of my sandwich three times. Three times I’ve snaked if off the side or bottom of my sandwich and set it against the brown paper. I’m eating a lap-sandwich at the airport. Normally there is no time to take apart a sandwich, no time to set a sandwich down and read a book between bites. Normally there is no airport. Normally I eat onions. But today is gloriously ABnormal. I’m alone. I’m alone at the airport.AA14C9CE-F166-46A4-B10D-391D14D699DE.jpegI’m waiting, so happily, for a delayed flight to Chicago. I’m reading and eating and daydreaming. All the while, this onion keeps re-attaching itself to my haphazard avocado sandwich, and I catch a glimpse or a whiff of it as I raise the sandwich for another bite. The ME in me wants to give the onion it’s due, smile to myself, and eat it out of admiration. That onion has spunk. But the part of me that’s running away with her boyfriend for the weekend says,  “Skip the onion.”

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