Do We Find Books or Do They Find Us?
It’s curious to think, that each of us up here has a life of their own — as messy and complicated and complex and wounded and delicately woven as ours. Some problems don’t go away even once you have reached 30,000 feet.
I watch the flight attendant begin to lose patience with the woman in the green jacket one row in front of me. He has sweat on his upper lip, an annoyed look in his eyes, and one foot pointed to where he was headed before she stopped him. The woman has managed to procure three complimentary glasses of wine from three different attendants within 30 minutes of air time and has now paid for a quarter bottle.
Is something troubling her? Is it just the unbearable idea of being confined to this tight space for roughly seven more hours? Or are there matters awaiting her when the rubber tires touch the ground?
Another man rests his left arm on presumably his wife’s leg. She sleeps, and there’s just enough sliver of light for him to continue reading. He seems content. I find myself wondering if his book has a happy ending.
A frail older woman sitting alone fidgets incessantly with her hands. Is she recently widowed? Worried about returning home for the holidays? The first holiday without her significant other?
