Sitting at an angle to avoid the sun on the left side of his face through the window his right leg cut into the right arm side arm rest. His feet barely in the aisle. No one was walking around but his feet were still there. While he avoided the sun on his face, his shoulder was warming up and what did not get swallowed whole by his black polo, peeked over and around his neck and fell onto his right wrist and forearm. He slouched in his seat to find relief from the tinge of pain in his back. It was genuine leather and had obviously cost some money at some point. But it was more like the leather you see in a Tom Hanks movie from the eighties Light brown, stretched way tighter than it probably needed to be, with stitching that was aggressive, meant to hold things down.
He had lifted it up. Not with his legs like they say you should. But with his back and now it hurt. The small pain would go away like it always did and he would survive like he always did and he would pick something up again with his back like he always did. He imagined a needle on vinyl slowly threading around in an ever tightening circle and it helped him take his mind off the uncomfortableness of the seat. His back. His leg. His ear.
He thought about her.
She had been outside being friendly as she is prone to do and he had been inside being dramatic as he was prone to do. Her living and experiencing and connecting in the real. He writing and fabricating and investing the small with something larger that may nor may actually be true.
Now he was in the seat in the air over another state and his mind was with her.
He was reading but was not paying attention. Zoning out. Distracted by his thoughts. Looking was probably a more fit description. Reading without reading was a bad habit. Like a sponge twice it’s weight with water. Saturated and seeping at the edges. Hemorrhaging the excess until it pooled together. Slowly creeping towards the drop on the counter. A mile long and paper thin.
(Was that a lake? Why were the clouds so flat today? Blue looked good against green. Why did my shoes have red clay on them? I like when people see red clay on my shoes. Something smelled. What is that? Cinnamon? Burnt cinnamon. And a pine tree. How did heavy things float? You probably could not calling it floating. The propeller made it move. Why was it in the front? Did it pull it forward? Motors are on the back of boats. Why are propellers on the front of planes? Surely the physics and science are the same. What’s the difference between pulling and pushing. It was still heavy and it felt like floating. But I guess it’s being pulled. It doesn’t make sense. I should look that up when I get internet. What was he playing? Circuit bending. There must be an app for that. That must still be a thing for some people. Perpetually tinkering. Trying this. Trying that. An exercise for the hands as much as the brain. Disciplining them to do what they’re told. Always with the doing. At least he is creating. Even if it is waste it is still something out of nothing. Like god. Maybe the creation out of nothing came from the exercise and discipline and the curiosity to see if the pieces fit. The pragmatics of a grand experiment that he decided to play out to it’s own logical conclusion. Either way we were both fucked. He with his pointless doing and I with with my endless wandering. Both were acts of processing that may or may not actually mean anything.)
“In the bathroom she folded the bills lengthwise once and put them under the loose leather lining in one of her slippers. Then she lay on her bed and waited for her parents to come tell her goodbye. After they left she sat at her window, head wedged in the corner of her wingback chair, took out her notebook and began to write.”