Force Field
JANN EVERARD
If I think about what I’m doing, I’ll never get off the plane. After all, it’s ridiculous to believe a computer program can predict two strangers will develop a meaningful relationship. It’s even more ridiculous to test that prediction by flying halfway across the country after a few dozen hours on Skype. And to Saskatchewan, no less, the one province I’ve never visited, never even had any interest in visiting. It’s possible I’ve spent a lifetime looking for love in all the wrong places. But it’s also possible I should abort this madness—take the first flight back home. I mean, WTF?
But there he is, and here I am, in the arrivals area at the Regina airport. The space between us quivers, as if some super heated prairie air hovers there, a force field I must pass through. I push aside all the expectations and disappointments of my thirty years and straighten my spine, reminding myself that it’s curiosity not desperation that has brought me here. Still, it says something about my confidence that in the back of my mind I’m thinking stock auctions, cows on display, the knowing eye of the farmer appraising girth, teats, the capacity to breed.
“Margaret?” My own pseudo-scientifically selected farmer has a bouquet of flowers in hand and more than a little doubt in his voice. “Margaret Dean?”
“Yes, it’s me, Maggie Dean.” I put down my pack and we share an awkward hug. “It’s good to finally meet you, Wyatt.”
We release and he holds me at arm’s length, as if our first hug has unnerved him somehow. I wonder if it was too much a city familiarity or whether I’ve disappointed him already—by breasts too large or too squishy. Back home, where jeans are tight, a surreptitious look down might have given me a hint, but here, jeans are loose, the package hidden. My own response is mixed. He’s a good-looking man and I’m feeling something. But it’s curdled with embarrassment and wrapped up in angst. I’m reminded of the drive to Pearson airport, my best friend asking, “Why are you doing this?” and me trying to explain. “When he talks to me, I feel . . . well, desired is the best way to put it.” At the terminal, Beth dropped my pack on the sidewalk and hugged me hard. “Honey, what you’re really feeling is deranged.”