A yellow-tipped propeller makes a memory of light. It is a golden halo, motionless against heaven's cold, blue sky. A plane inches across a landscape marked by a grid of man's making.
Inside the metal bullet there are 32 young ones, old ones, skinny ones, fat ones, light ones, dark ones. People with all kinds of purposes. The biggest one apologizes, "I'm my nightmare seat mate. I'd hate sitting next to me." He struggles to take off his jacket in the cramped space while I stand, waiting for the settling. In front of him is the skinny, dark, young man with the expensive phone. No one beside him. He has the luxury of spreading his detritus to the adjacent seat. The plane is hot. "Is it warm in here?" I ask, hoping fat man won't mind if I turn the air up.
Fat man laughs, "Thought I was having a hot flash." The steady, noisy buzz of the commuter plane's engines precludes conversation. The seat in front of fat man slams back. He sighs. He closes his eyes as if to sleep. Then skinny, young, dark guy gets up. He leaves the seat reclined.
Fat man is not really sleeping. How can he? His legs at unnatural angles. Where is that dark boy of no sensitivity? He makes me so angry, so insensitive to others, so selfish. I can imagine the rage of happy fat man just pushing the seat forward. Crush the skinny kid. Where is he anyway? I thought there was only one bathroom here and that's not him coming out.
A flash of orange light in the blue sky. A rainfall of detritus. The halo is gone.