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We trembled like dust.
I shouldn’t call him that, but he was a drunk carrying a bouquet of roses at the airport. He said “These are for you” to every attendant while boarding, not noticing the leaves flapping along passengers’ faces. He sat down next to me. Take-off was turbulent and we both trembled like dust. Once we were in the air he tried sleeping with his feet up on the cabin wall, beside the emergency escape, until he was admonished. He ordered wine, turned to me, and said that life is very simple on an airplane.
That he tries to fly as often as possible.
That once the plane touches down, life gets complicated again, a little more complicated than when he took off.
I told him I find that if I do not deliberately make my life simple, the same thing happens to me.
He nodded along and then he played me his favourite stadium rock anthems out of his phone while people turned to glare.
When we landed, the attendants did not wish him safe travels. Passengers who replied to him on the plane now walked quickly away. Outside I saw him hailing a taxi, swaying, the roses dragging against the ground like paintbrushes.
I gently took his arm and raised it up. His eyes lit blue and gold, perfectly gold. He began telling me about his daughter. I bowed my head, apologized, and went to find my car.
This is the first of my set of melancholy stories. I hope you enjoy them!