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Gray
When I close my eyes, I dream about the moment a fraction of a second before you realize you’ve ruined absolutely everything.
I shiver awake, afraid, tasting copper on my tongue. My breathing calms as I anchor myself to the sounds of air hissing from overhead vents and rain pattering against the window.
According to my watch and the man behind me mumblingfucking piece of shit airline, we’re twenty minutes behind schedule leaving the gate. With nothing waiting for me but an empty apartment in an unfamiliar city, I’m perfectly content to take my time.
I quite enjoy flying. Where else can you find hours of uninterrupted reading time, a cup of tea, and people who have no desire to speak with each other? I’ve been told this kind of opinion makes me sound closer to sixty-five years old than thirty-six, but being the most boring person in a room has its advantages. If no one’s interested in me, I can spend more time reading.
I dig my latest doorstop-sized hardcover from my bag—John Adams, by David McCullough—and skim the accolades on the dust jacket, all assuring me it's the greatest piece of biography ever conceived.
Loud footsteps sprint down the boarding ramp and the flight attendant grabs the intercom. “Alright, folks, thank you for your patience. We’ll be shutting the doors and departing as quickly as possible.”
A boy in his mid-twenties barrels around the corner so fast he has to grab the bulkhead to save himself from falling headfirst into the front row of seats. He finds his feet and straightens his ball cap, sweat staining the back of his faded bass fishing t-shirt as he asks the flight attendant where to sit.
She points at the empty seat next to mine.Terrific.
Dumping his bags on the floor, he pulls a boarding pass out of his mouth. “Sorry about that, everyone,” he announces to the cabin at large, flashing a sheepish grin. “Thanks for waiting.”
“Asshole,” someone snorts. He pretends not to hear, hunting for overhead bin space, but his smile fades a little.
He seems like a threat to the part of my day that involves not speaking to anyone, so I use my book to mask the fact that I’m watching him. As he manhandles his bags into place, I take much longer than I should to realize he’s doing everything with one hand; his left arm ends in a stump just below the elbow.
His short frame has to jump to reach the bin cover and slam it shut, showing a strip of green plaid boxers, the kind you buy in twenty-four packs from stores I haven’t visited since I got my first job as a corporate lawyer. My seat shakes as he flops down with a dramatic sigh and pins one end of his seatbelt with his elbow, carefully inserting the tab with his right hand. He snuggles into the plush cushion appreciatively, still breathing hard, sweat damp on his soft, tan skin, and I realize I’m staring. Before I can look away, he glances over and gives me a heady hit of wide, chocolate-brown eyes. They’re terrifyingly clear and unguarded, no walls between the outside world and the center of his soul.
His lips curve into a grin. “Hi. I’ve never flown first class before. You’ll have to tell me if I break any of the rules or do something rude. My mom says I can be a very rude person.”
I blink, trying to get my mind around anything he just said. When I don’t answer, he bites his lip. “Let me guess. I’m already being rude.” He has a flat, easygoing accent that could only come from somewhere in the middle of the country.
“It’s fine.” I turn away as the plane starts to taxi. He smells like summer grass and those candles scented like clean laundry. It would have been wise to shut the divider between our seats before he had a chance to open his mouth. I can’t exactly slam it in his face now, so I open my book and read the same paragraph over and over until I can focus enough to continue.
The engines roar and the cabin tilts, long streaks of rain drying up under our sheer speed. By the time the clouds cut off my view of the long California coastline, the flight attendant is up and taking drink orders. “Sir?”
“Black tea, please. A little sugar, no cream.”
We both look at the seat next to me, where my new acquaintance is clutching a battered plastic water bottle with half an inch of tepid water inside. “I’m good, thanks,” he says meekly.
I make the type of educated guess lawyers rely on every day. “You realize the drinks are free, right?”
He brightens up. “Really?”
“Really really.”
My sarcasm seems lost on him as he frowns. “Wow. Is there a menu?”
I can’t listen to him painstakingly consider the pros and cons of every beverage on offer. “He’ll have a—” I hesitate. “You can drink, can’t you?”
When he laughs, dimples pop out on both cheeks, one side much deeper than the other. “I’m notthatyoung.”
“Then he’ll have the IPA.” I thought that’s what an average young adult might enjoy, but his messy eyebrows go up as if I’ve ordered him a single barrel bourbon.
“Thanks for the drink,” he offers as the flight attendant checks his ID and leaves.
“I did not buy you a drink,” I hasten to clarify.
“Right. Because that would be weird.” He gives me a look I can’t interpret at all.
When my tea arrives, I go back to my book while he messes around with his movie screen, sitting fascinated with his lips slightly parted around the rim of his beer can. Fifteen minutes later, he’s asleep, head flopped over on his shoulder, his arms crossed and tucked up under his armpits like he’s cold.
