9:00 pm
The lights in the airplane are a little brighter now. Still, I have to squint to make out the features of my two neighbors, both of whom seem to be sleeping. Through the window, the fuzzy lights of home spiral into clearer existence as the plane descends through the night. I bundle my jacket a little tighter around myself, glancing around again. Some are stirring, sitting up; others staring at the backs of chairs. It’s silent but for the low humming of the machinery and those soft sleeping noises, and if I close my eyes I guess I would feel alone. I don’t close my eyes, but all the way up in the air with just two strangers for company, I feel alone anyway.
A cool female voice informs us of our imminent arrival, and the plane begins to wakes itself from its slumber. The man to my right pushes the window cover up and down, up and down. As wheels hit concrete runway with a familiar jolt, phones are already out. The man to my left speaks to someone comfortably.
“Listen, if the beans aren’t planted, just do it tomorrow. Yeah... yeah.”
I make up a story for him in my head. Perhaps he’s a farmer talking to his farm hand. Perhaps his family business is farming. Perhaps he is far from home on some mysterious business. Perhaps he is talking to his wife and he will tell her he loves her.
“Love you too.”
An aching hits my chest and I sit back, running my fingers over the armrests. From the corner of my eyes, I see the man’s lock screen before it goes dark. Him and his son.
His wife, then. Somebody who loves him and tells him so even when he’s thousands of miles away from her. The aching deepens; a desire for something manifests. I want the same thing, but I’m just one young girl making up stories in an airplane by herself, jumping to conclusions by herself. And even on the ground, the lights outside are still fuzzy, and the world so big.
The lights come on in full, the dim strange hoping moment breaks. As the man turns to retrieve his suitcase, our eyes meet for a second. Plain brown and tired and nothing more. They are the eyes of a stranger, for he is, after all, just that.
A cool female voice informs us of our imminent arrival, and the plane begins to wakes itself from its slumber. The man to my right pushes the window cover up and down, up and down. As wheels hit concrete runway with a familiar jolt, phones are already out. The man to my left speaks to someone comfortably.
“Listen, if the beans aren’t planted, just do it tomorrow. Yeah... yeah.”
I make up a story for him in my head. Perhaps he’s a farmer talking to his farm hand. Perhaps his family business is farming. Perhaps he is far from home on some mysterious business. Perhaps he is talking to his wife and he will tell her he loves her.
“Love you too.”
An aching hits my chest and I sit back, running my fingers over the armrests. From the corner of my eyes, I see the man’s lock screen before it goes dark. Him and his son.
His wife, then. Somebody who loves him and tells him so even when he’s thousands of miles away from her. The aching deepens; a desire for something manifests. I want the same thing, but I’m just one young girl making up stories in an airplane by herself, jumping to conclusions by herself. And even on the ground, the lights outside are still fuzzy, and the world so big.
The lights come on in full, the dim strange hoping moment breaks. As the man turns to retrieve his suitcase, our eyes meet for a second. Plain brown and tired and nothing more. They are the eyes of a stranger, for he is, after all, just that.