Reflections of light bounce of the smudged window like fireworks. You pull down the shade, and I wonder what kind of girl pulls down the shade when she's flying at night. You take out your computer and blind me with the screen, and I guess it makes sense to block out one kind of light for another, to minimize the reflections. Still, nobody asked me for I am the lowly middle seat.
I judge you as you pay the whatever price for the no more than forty-eight or so minutes of Internet you'll be able to use in the air. I judge the man next to me for spending all that money on a little scotch. Can neither of you go one hour without these little frivolities? But perhaps I am too good at going without things, frivolities and otherwise, people and places and memories. And suddenly a drink and an email don't sound so bad.
And if I could look out the window what would I see? Cornfields and man-made lames and the lights of houses of people I will never know. An entire world spent going over and never through. Would I see anything I couldn't see from the discomfort of this middle seat, knees wedged up against my own book? And as I think that perhaps I have seen all I am meant to see the plane shakes, hard, then harder still, and I can only laugh at the timing.
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