From a post on Notebook, MUBI’s online film publication.

“My fiancé is waiting for me in Las Vegas,” she says. She keeps on talking about her fiancé and apologizing for her every move. That’s just something junkies do. I know she’s a junkie not because she’s drinking liquid morphine but because she says sorry a lot. And the cheekbones, of course.

She calls it “my medicine,” the morphine. She asks the flight attendant for wine and I join her. I’m on a Manchester–Las Vegas Thomas Cook flight and I need a drink.

If she didn’t call it her medicine I would ask her for some. I can’t sit still. I’m nervous. I’m in trouble. I was told that entering through Las Vegas would be easier than LAX, that the immigration officers are more relaxed. Or that they are so overwhelmed by serious criminals that people like me have an easier time sneaking through. “People like me.”

The friendly junkie talks about love and falls fast asleep. I get up and walk down the aisle, just as she will do in a few weeks. It’s dark. The only light comes from the passengers’ screens and almost everyone is watching that piece-of-shit movie. I can’t believe this. Not only is Jer not over his ex, but now I have to stand here and watch this fucking movie against my will. An Oscar contender, they say. Oscar contender my ass. Can you believe this? Every screen: her face. I go back to my seat and pick up the liquid morphine from the junkie’s lap. She doesn’t notice. Good. I take a sip and peek at the screen two rows ahead of me. I watch the whole movie in silence.