Rubbish to Toss Away

The tears are streaming into my barely edible “chicken casserole” and mashed potatoes on the overnight flight to Heathrow. My thumbs are raw and bleeding—a horrendous habit of skin picking I have not been able to break since I was five, always exacerbated by stress. The flight attendant notices my puffy eyes and pours me a second round of cheap prosecco, brimming over my plastic cup, just like the tears down my face. In her proper British accent, she whispers, “Enjoy, darling; get some sleep.” It’s as though she could feel my grief, my heavy chest and broken heart; the pit in my belly; the breath that is stuck.