Flight attendants in their trim blue suits squint down the aisles. I tuck my laptop and limbs into the tiny seat. The man next to me is talking about his wedding in August, a honeymoon, then he's retiring. How nice, I think, to look forward. I watch his forehead dance with expression as the plane dips and bobs. I am picking my fingers raw: little bits of skin snowing to my lap. My husband would be sad. The steward leans in for our drink orders, a Bloody Mary and water-no ice. Trays go down and now I’m trapped. My restless feet do a 'soft shoe' under my tray. This relentless stream of air is boring an icy spot into my balding eyebrow. I reach to turn it off but the lever is cleverly out of reach, my fingertips barely brush the rim. I resign, and turn to the window. There is no view, just a long night. My eyes closed, I settle in to the hum of the engines and feel the stillness of the plane the way I feel the stillness of my life: suspended.
I open my laptop.
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