Limbs aching, heart pounding, I sprinted past the shops and bars, cursing the height of my heels and the ridiculous shortness of my skirt. "Will all remaining passengers on flight BD109 make their way to Gate A17. The doors to this flight are now closing." Yet again, on another crazy Friday night, I said to myself, This is just ridiculous.

At first, it made sense. My career was here; his job was over there. If we wanted to see each other, somebody had to travel. It was usually me booking the ticket, clock watching at the end of the workday, rushing out to catch the evening flight. Not to mention doing the whole trip in reverse, in the dark and chilly Monday dawn. For months it was like this, months that turned into years.

Stumbling down the gangway and flopping into my seat, I thought yet again: Is all the hassle really worth it? But I knew that in that brief moment when the cab turned the corner and I caught my first glimpse of him standing in the front window, it would be.

Even after we got married, we did another 23 months of the weekend thing, until finally, he got a job in my city. It didn't last. A year later he was diagnosed with cancer, and a year after that, he was dead at 46. It's hard not to think about all the time we wasted, wishing away our weekdays, living for those Friday nights and the moment when the cab went around the corner.

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