We soon settled into our seats, on a runway at Heathrow, across the aisle from each other. We tell ourselves that we prefer the perceived extra space when, in fact, it’s a safety precaution, conceived from the realization that there is no realistic method to predict the state of a relationship after living three weeks out of a suitcase, on floors of trains, laying blame for many failed menu interpretations.
Our short time in Paris was filled with walking and good immersion. Something in the water or “pastis” in this city has one looking across the breakfast table and talking about how beautiful her hair looks today, wondering why I don’t say it aloud more.
Maybe it’s the art. Few things surpass the sensuality of her with Degas, Seurat, Renior, Cassat and that wonderful deco furniture exhibit at the D’Orsay.
The way we see it, the aisle will serve as an appropriate barrier, either from each other or from a fantasy of unrequited love. If I reached across to hold her hand, would the German tourists brand me a crazy American?
Shortly after takeoff, a glance revealed my masked compadre, already progressing into a state of “coach bliss,” differentiated from “slumber bliss.” I stared for a moment, reclined a bit, put on the headphones and “Back Down South” by Kings of Leon, thought about home and how good life is. A last glance at my masked partner or blindfolded lover or, you know, whatever, reminds me of how much we have shared together.
Later during the flight, while blowing my nose, a small blood vessel burst. Have you ever done that at 37,000 feet? The German tourists started screaming, flagging down “stewardei” (plural for flight attendant), as blood strewn down my lips, dripping on my sweater. After weighing totally opposed treatment options from a flight attendant and the woman across the aisle, the bleeding soon subsided and eventually clouted. Things are back to being good.
No, kemosabi, things are very good.