Coalescence ➳ H.S.

Nine: Dresses

Harry's POV

"Sir? I'm going to have to ask you to take off your sunglasses."

I was brought back to earth by the voice of a flight attendant—young, possibly in her twenties, with thick lips, painted pink, and a head full of brown hair pinned up in a bun—staring down at me from the aisle. Their clothing regulations were starting to anger me, but I complied and removed them.

"Thank you sir. Normally we wouldn't have thought anything of it, but I'm sure you're aware of the man that broke out of prison a couple of days ago?"

"Quite aware, yes."

"He's known to jump around from state to state. Portland police tagged him as dangerous."

"Really? He looks like a funny guy," I remarked with a smirk. The flight attendant raised an eyebrow and cleared her throat, unsure of what to say next.

"I...well...I suppose he's funny looking—"

"What? No, I didn't mean—"

"Would you like anything to drink, sir?"

She caught me off guard. I really had to step my game up; what if the inmates in jail saw me getting sassed by other people? Christ.

"Champagne. Thanks."

I touched my lips as she walked away to fetch me what I had requested. The dry cracks on the surface reminded me that I licked my lips far too often to try and retrieve the taste of Sperling's tongue. Nothing helped; I had been gone from her for less than a day and I desperately wanted to quit my search and return to her.

Irrational, I scolded myself, irrational, unmotivated and blind. You love Bria.

But I was having a hard time convincing myself of that.

I licked my lips again, but I could produce nothing of Sperling. Nothing of my lavish lifestyle—not the first class seats, nor the champagne, nor the trip to Prague—reminded me of her; she was humble and lived modestly (depite her owning an abundance of clothes in her spare bedroom) and she really didn't deserve to be treated the way I treated her.

We used each other, I repeated, we used each other.

But we really didn't (or at least she didn't).

It wasn't long before we were up in the air. As an adolescent, I was deathly afraid of the cramped seats and the change in air pressure popping my ears. I didn't like the sound of crying children, and I absolutely hated when the person in front of me would recline his seat as if I didn't have a stomach to feed (I remembered having my soup spill in my lap and sitting in pure discomfort the entire plane ride because I was far too shy to say anything to anybody). Since then, I refused to fly coach.

The entire flight took about half a day and we touched down in England early in the evening just in time to see the sun descending in the sky. It had been quite a while since I visited last; my latest memory of being here was when I was at the airport going back to Portland from my grandparents'— the very day I met Bria. I suppose I was too caught up with her to miss being back.

The seatbelt sign turned off and everyone got up to pull their carry-ons from the compartments above their seats. I followed the crowd in doing so, reaching up and grabbing my only belongings in the dufflebag and swinging it onto my shoulder. We filed out of the airplane like grade school children or a flock of sheep and followed the direction of hallways out into the baggage collection area. I, of course, had nothing much to collect; it might've been nice to see my grandparents standing at the gates, waiting for my arrival, but, of course, they knew I was a convicted criminal and wanted nothing to do with me.