Her traveling on business, him a family vacation planned months ago. In February, before she turned what he knew inside out.
What if she’d taken that same flight, she thought, imagining him seated directly behind her. Averting her eyes when they boarded; an awkwardness you could cut filling the atmosphere around them. Fixated on the flight attendants, she’d hope that through some bizarre turn of events an upgrade would be made available. That she, for whatever reason the universe could muster, was next on the list. A family of 8 stuck in traffic leaving seats available in Business Class, rows away from the these worlds colliding. That didn’t turn out to be the case; she froze, like a sitting duck as they made their way towards her.
Approaching the gate and boarding through the Red Carpet lane minutes before, she’d not had a chance to survey the crowd forming. Never noticing him until he was maneuvering through the aisle, his youngest at his feet. Her glance in his direction locked instinctively on him. She moved quickly for her book, hiding in the pages, never looking but feeling his stare burn through the words. Flick of the page to push the thoughts from her head. What were the chances he’d be seated behind her and she glanced over her right shoulder at an empty aisle. Good, chances were good.
They often commented, and joked, and imagined how their lives running parallel had likely found them crossing in airports around the world. He could have been seated in the same seat going from Rome to SFO that she occupied on the plane from SFO to Rome. Their jobs, completely dissimilar, but uncannily putting them in Munich on layovers at the same time. They lived blocks from each other in San Francisco and never noticed one leaving as the other entered any one of a dozen Taquerias in the Mission. All of these things could have happened and it was how they justified the connection they had; as if all along the universe had intended for them to find one another.
He’d fuss in the overhead, inches from her; his shirt lifting from his pant waist as he stretched to reach for a stuffed Giraffe. His skin exposed, her heart raced and she rubbed her neck, usually to comfort herself but this time purposefully dusting his stomach with her fingers. He twitched and she jerked back returning her hands and thoughts to the pages of the book in her lap. She was going to have to tune out if there was any hope of surviving the flight with her sanity intact. Earbuds in, music drowning her thoughts and desperately trying to ignore every movement coming from the seat behind her. His youngest knocking about trying the settle in. Him grabbing the back of her seat to steady himself. When the call for all portable electronics to be turned off came, she cautiously removed the distraction from her ears, and it was silent. Still. Like the row behind her didn’t exist, and she exhaled. Maybe the 10hr flight would go by without incident.
The choice of footwear for international travel is key; you wear the heaviest or the most space consuming pair. A pair of 4″ cork wedge slip-on sandals that many would deem impractical for walking let alone maneuvering around an airport. But she was a pro; years spent traipsing the streets of NYC in stilettos to elongate her legs. Feel sexy. It’s what she was most comfortable in now, and required the wearing of at least one pair to have room in her suitcase for attire. A man would wear sneakers; bulky and unforgiving when smashed in luggage, or boots; a space hog and heavy. His choice? Boots. Those boots. The same boots that poked from under the table to the side of her when they sat at breakfast in late January. The boots that made a delicious *thud* on the hardwood floor of that hotel room the night prior. Those boots; a light tan suede worn to the beginning stages of nubuck; when the fuzz of suede takes on a leather quality.
20 minutes after take-off when her heart had slowed and the hum of the plane distracted her thoughts, she shifted in her seat to stretch her legs and glanced over into the aisle. His boots. Those boots, stretched out within reach. Her neck stiffened to prevent her from looking behind her. She tucked her feet in beneath her, afraid to recline her seat she sat, with perfect posture, for what seemed like hours. Sat waiting for the sun to go down. For the cabin to become dark. She sat and waited to steal a glimpse of him. He’d be sleeping and she’d forget for a moment and smile at him. Forget that there was a plane full of people. Forget that only feet from her, was a sentry.
But like her, he’d not sleep. Sitting straight up in his seat, eyes fixed on the back of her seat, staring through it and into her. She strained to see above the seat and he gave her a start when he locked on her gaze. Quickly from her seat she slithered around the corner to the lavatory, locking herself inside, exhaling into the tiny sink and splashing cold water on her face. A mistake. Now her only oath back was in his direct sight. How long could she stay in there? Most everyone was asleep so the demand would be minimal and there were three other lavatories in the row. She’d stayed long enough to hatch an escape; shed take a left, going down the other side and coming back to her seat from behind him. She’d slip into her seat before he could notice. She made her move, quickly approached her seat, escaping undeniable familiarity.
But the universe had a different plan. The air is thin at 36,000 feet; molecules of rational thoughts break down. Thinking she’d cleared his notice, she felt him pressed against her, moving her forward, passed her row to the galley she’d just exited. She was startled, that feeling of danger like you’d get from being charged, rushed through her, catching her scream before it escaped. And in the faint illumination of space her mind catapulted into the past; so far from this day but so vivid a memory. The sunlight peeking through the shade like it did that morning when they’d not yet found the need for sleep. For a few moments he did nothing but look at her. Around her neck, the St. Christopher she always wore when she travelled and was wearing that afternoon at lunch. She told the story of how her father gave it to her and how sometimes, when she was unraveling from the blows that life dealt her, she wore it to protect her wandering heart. In the wee hours of this morning, in that plane galley, her heart pounded with the fervor of a freight train. He grazed her neckline with his finger, pulling the necklace from where it was tucked beneath her shirt collar, and with his other hand, pulled at a thin leather cord around his neck; the same St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers.
“Looks like there are two wandering hearts on this plane tonight,” she whispered after regaining her footing and moved in the fissure of space between them back to her seat. She’d see him pass, feel the tug on her seat as he steadied himself, and once again those boots stretched out in the aisle next to her. For the rest of the flight she tucked her thoughts away and waited for the time to pass.