We’ve lived very different lives.
Wouldn’t call yours living.
Arthur lets out a low laugh, and I peek again. He’s smiling.
I suck on the inside of my cheek, oddly triumphant, and type out,What about me?
Oh, you want me to do you now?
Forget it.
How did you put it before? I don’t think about you enough to hate you.
Goodbye.
No no I’ll play.
Across the aisle, his thumbs barely make a sound as he types out what must be the longest message in the history of phones. Then—
You’re 24. American. Young, pretty, and in denial about both. (Very American, by the way. Puritanical creatures, all of you.) Recently dramatically dumped, appropriately emotionally scarred. Too clever for your own good. Likes to fight. (Masochist?) Thinks making documentaries absolves you of media sin; should have gone to law school. Disconnected from your body, which has manifested in a frankly bizarre but entertaining hatred of sports. Would love to see you sloshed and shirtless on a table.
My stomach twists, an empty scattering, and the sensation is not at all from the flight.Is Coyote Ugly the only movie you’ve seen, I text back, ignoring the rest.
Well yes. I had to learn about Texas somehow.
It takes place in NYC.
Alas, that must be why I haven’t seen you on a table yet.
I can’t help it. I laugh, and Arthur’s head turns in the corner of my eye.
My phone vibrates.
You look less like you’re about to pass out. Need anything? Liquor? Mile-high club membership?
Look at that. We’re up in the air, and I don’t want to die. I fumble for my bag and pull out another anti-nausea pill, popping it with a gulp of soda water.
Nope. All better.
Good, he texts back, and for a second, I forget who he is. I just read that one word—good—and the casual caretaking does a lot more for my quote-unquote Puritanical sexuality than whatever blunt-force flirtation he deployed in front of Max.Goodis what someone says when they care if you’re not good. If they think about you.
Which is silly. Arthur isn’t that worried about me. This is his basic human decency kicking in.
Thanks for the distraction
Behind me, there’s a tinny buzz as a partition slides from one side of the plane to the other, shutting us away from everyone else.“Don’t get cocky again. I always watch movies on long flights, and whoever sits here has to put up with it,” Arthur says as he presses a button on the remote, dimming the lights. “Pull your window shade down.”
I do, and the second I’m not faced with clouds, the rest of my plane anxiety vanishes. I cuddle back into my chair and pull my knees up to my chest. Out of nowhere I’m bone-tired, fatigue replacing the two-week-long panic attack about Max and Sarah and perfectly planning our secret-movie plot and how to keep my life from crumbling between my fingers, like an old film reel deteriorating from vinegar syndrome. Too much heat or humidity triggers a chemical reaction in the cellulose acetate and turns film into an acid that breaks itself down.
Relatable.
“Before you ask,” Arthur says, “I am willing to watch a documentary. One. For research.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Can’t remember the last time I have.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Nobody willingly offers to watch nonfiction with me. Regular people like Arthur prefer big, splashy films with character arcs and special effects. Kino-Pravda doesn’t seem like his cup of tea.
