“Hello!”
Yes, you. Hi!
You and I are bound to one another for the next 1:45, can you believe it?
You belong to my row.
You belong to me.
Welcome.
What middle-aged, white-man name should I assign you?
I’ll see what feels right.
We’ve taken off, and your co-worker continues to talk to you about a work dilemma at an ungodly volume from across the aisle.
It’s as if she doesn’t read your body language, it’s as if she can’t see you straining to edge your ear closer to her mouth to get her to take it down a notch or three.
I like that about you, Mike.
And I like this about us—you are there for me.
Like when my phone fell mid-flight between the window and my seat, a plane passenger’s abyss.
You saw me searching, and you came to me.
You asked the fellow behind us to assist despite his plane-seat-deep-lounge.
Did he bring all that bedding onboard?
Was he asleep or resting his eyes?
Either way, behind-us-fellow rose to the occasion, aiding and abetting like he’d been charged weeks ago with this mission and prepared for me.
And then his time to shine arrived.
“It’s under your seat.”
Liar.
Oh my god, there it is!
Perfectly propped and wedged, invisible from where I sat.
I grabbed the phone and exhaled my relief.
“This seat is free for us to use.”
He said as he patted the empty middle seat.
My god, Patrick, it is!
Did we pay for this additional real estate? No?
With rates so high…what a luxury!
I placed by phone on the middle seat to assure him that I was both open-minded and proactive.
After all, we were thousands of feet in the air experiencing the miracle of air travel…together.
But his spreadsheets were boring me from three feet and a full middle-aged-white-man lifetime away.
I’ve got you, Bill!
Blink twice if you need me to save you.
I can place your oxygen mask first if we go down, just throw your spreadsheets to the wind!
The ground might catch us if we cross our fingers and don’t burst into flame.
No man should be bound by spreadsheets, especially you, my row mate…my friend?
No, no.
Respect the formality.
This is a part of the safety of side-by-side placement.
There are rules I must respect.
Like any grandmother that sits beside me becomes my grandmother from wheels up to touch down.
But not every grandmother asks how your day has been or if you need prayer.
This becomes painfully obvious on a plane.
How different we were all raised and nurtured.
How horrible random luck can be for those without mothers who kissed them from head to toe.
For those without grandmothers who pray for you.
But my row mate is no grandmother.
And it would be a stretch to assume he was a grandfather.
Who’s to say?
I can tell he likes my chaos, my churning mind and observing eyes.
He sees that I am a down-to-earth woman flying high with my Chex Mix and a hardcover journal.
Maybe Peter finds me charming,
Or is it more than that?
There it is: the plight of the single man and woman atop an interconnected row of seats.
I guess it is the 2020’s, perhaps the plight is more widespread.
Man and woman. Man and man. Woman and woman.
Perhaps no one is safe, the burden of modernity!
Doomed to wonder if there is a sexual tension to explore with every one we meet.
Here we are, bound by the FAA and seatbelts that would do very little if we found ourselves in actual danger.
What is our dynamic, Kyle?
It’s always hard to know when my knees are out.
I have great knees.
At 34, men of all ages pose a challenge.
The older ones conflict as father figures or lovers advanced in years.
The younger ones could see me as a love interest or as a ma’am, who’s to say?
All I know is that, over the last 1:45, you and I have created something lasting, Craig.
I will never forget what we had, what we lost and found.
Forgive me, a romantic.
You’ll always be the man from the plane.
Such a smooth landing, wasn’t it?
Welcome to Denver.
Note: Based on actual events that may or may not be embellished due to the author’s need to enliven and romanticize every human interaction.