I am not too sure when shit hit the fan. But it did, and now I'm standing here covered in it.

Let me tell you where the beginning of my disaster started.

"Calling all passengers for direct flight 232 to Moscow, this is our final boarding call."

Misha can hear the agents voice through the microphone from a distance. The agents words feel like a new knife stabbing through her already tired quads as she picks up her pace.

With the counter in sight, just a mere couple meters from the agent at the front, Misha's passport flies out of her hand as she face plants, hitting her chin hard on the cold concrete floor.

In the chaos, her bag is thrown to her side and her purse spills out all it contents onto the floor.

Misha's picks her self up and starts to hurriedly shove the spilled contents back into her purse.

She pats the floor all around her desperately looking to where her passport flew to.

A tall man with golden hair and eyes like two succulent blueberries kneels down beside her and passes her, her passport.

"It looks like we both arrived just in time." Then man says with a flirtatious grin.