Night Flight

He takes forever to settle down. Maybe 30, he is tall and thin, dark hair, cut very short, he is very well put together as we used to say. He puts his black bag under the seat in front of him then retrieves it minutes later, rifles through its compartments, puts it back under the seat, turns all his pockets inside out, finds his earbuds, plugs them in, takes them out, winds them in a tight cord, and so it goes, over and over. All the while the edge of his black leather jacket rubs my arm and my left side and I shoot little glances at him just so he knows I notice. His fidgets continue until the plane takes off and then he plugs his phone in and starts to watch cartoons. He is doing this in earnest as if the cartoon is the last episode of The Fugitive or Game of Thrones.

Soon the cabin darkens and the customers on this cross-country night-time flight take up their sleeping positions. My husband leans his head back and goes to sleep. I do the same but it is uncomfortable, then I stretch out with my feet deep under the street in front of me, then I turn on my side, then I retrieve my raincoat from my backpack to make a pillow. My pants, which I’ve now worn for ten days on and off, are scratchy and stiff, my boots are making small dents in my ankles, my socks, fine for the Arctic, are impossibly thick. I lament.

Beside me, Aisle Seat Man leans against the seat in front of him with his head in his hands. From the wee light that seeps out from between his arms, I see he is still watching cartoons. I wonder if he will give me a look like I’d given him earlier, just a hint of aggravation, a glimmer of ‘I see you there moving constantly.’ But he doesn’t. Still, I feel him noticing me and my unsettledness and think about apologizing. ‘I’m sorry about moving around so much.’ But I don’t.

After the plane lands, we wait in our seats, each of us looking out separate windows. Finally, he pulls his black bag out from under the seat and stands up in the aisle, adjusts his black leather jacket so it looks just right. On the back of his right leg, running four or five inches down his new jeans is a sticker from the store that says “Levi’s 34 x 32.” I think maybe it’s a fashion statement like how my son used to keep the stickers on new baseball caps but I don’t know. It could be an error that could lead to ridicule. I consider peeling it off but don’t, then telling him but I don’t. We just don’t have that kind of relationship.

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Photo by Jürg Gutknecht on Unsplash