Airplane seats are vile receptacles for traveler cast-offs.
An unlikely hiding place for a furiously scribbled confession from the passenger in 7A trapped there before you.
Lost dreams. A Jay-Z concert. A carnal tryst in the Westin Paris Vendome. A bourbon-scented hotel room illuminated by half-lit cigarettes dying in a crystal ashtray.
Just take a hit off her word syringe of love and discontent and you know it ain’t the lies that hurt, it’s the truth.