The Writer Tries to Find Her 'Happy Place'

When the seat belt bell went off again, I released a breath I didn’t know I had been holding in.

“I take it you don’t enjoy flying.”

“How in the world could you tell?” I groaned, leaning back in my chair and closing my eyes.

“Well, it’d be appreciated if you let the circulation come back to my arm.”

My eyes shot open, and my hand was placed firmly in my lap, where it stayed for a good ten minutes. I scrounged up my brow, trying to remember what papa’s yard in Ireland looked like.

Emma always is telling me I’m spoiled in terms of living space; it’s true – I’ve lived in two huge houses. It was only natural that I felt claustrophobic in New York.

New York – the sidewalks packed shoulder to shoulder with a wave of seething bodies.

An involuntary shudder passed through my shoulders at the thought.

I tried to picture something else, but I was interrupted by another small jerk.

The seat belt sign went on again, and I steeled myself.

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