The Journey

Legs cramped, bolt upright, we wait. Some are already looking queasy despite the fact that we aren't moving and according to the pilot, shan't do so for a long time. The woman beside me is clutching a sick bag, she gets travel sick, she informs me, a gleam of pride in her eyes. I don't answer, my reply won't be the one she wants and if we are to sit beside each other for the next seven hours, animosity would be unbearable! Suddenly there is a voice, clear and loud, 'We apologise for the delay but one of the rear doors won't shut properly.' My hand is clutched and imprisoned in a sweaty palm-she has gone green. Politely I extract my hand, she keeps talking; the date and whereabouts of every plane that crashed because of a faulty door. I block my ears, stare fixedly at the screen in front of me, they are showing what to do in case of emergency, unhelpful to say the least. A baby is wailing in the corner, an embarrassed mother soothing it quietly. I understand, I would cry if I could. But I would look ridiculous-and that wouldn't do. It is growing increasingly warm, as the woman removes her cardigan, she elbows me a few times and catches my hair in her ring. I wait for an apology, ready to be forgiving. I keep waiting as she unfolds a broadsheet newspaper, covering both our laps with grey paper and ink, which in envision marking my trousers. She turns the page with much rustling and coughing. At last, there is an announcement, we are going. Slowly we cruise down the runway. The speed increases, like a bird taking off, the ground falls away as we rise. A feeling of floating descends, a buoyancy and lightness. I turn to look out of the window, to look into the darkness and see the lights below, beautiful and unreal. She slams the shutter down and switches on the light, white and glaring. I quiver with indignation but she has the window seat and hence priority over the state of the shutter. The plane shakes suddenly, slight turbulence, at once we are the best of friends, once again my hand is imprisoned, holding the bag to her face, she talks, her rambling muffled, distraught. Suddenly I feel pity for her, both of us alone, not wanting to be on board. Trapped, unable to get off, thousands of miles above earth.