We’re sitting shoulder to shoulder. Literally. At first I sat up and leaned on my left hip, but that starts to ache in the places I injured years ago. So now I am allowing my arm to rest against his. I can feel his forearm flex as his fingers shuffle the cards on smart-phone-solitaire.
He’s furry and smells of the outdoors and has said only two words, but I am sure I trust him.
I swear I didn’t mean to, but I saw when he sat down he texted Deborah to let her know he boarded his plane. I wasn’t going to read it, but the text started with, “Hey baby …” and of course I needed to know the rest.
I re-tied my scarf and he asked, “Cold, eh?”
I smiled too big and assured him I was alright.
He hasn’t said a word since, but is tapping his foot furiously to whatever is playing in those grey-white headphones. I’m going to say it’s a playlist of Regina Spektor and Ben Folds, because it makes me feel good to know my furry companion has good taste.
While I’m in the mood to fill the unknowns with fiction, I’ll tell you that I’m just sure his Deborah is a ceramics artist and they have a Great Dane with hip problems and a love of cheese.
I like them already.
See this is what I do—I make the world taste delicious. Even on dreary February days in Portland when the snow and rain can’t decide whose turn it’s meant to be and the plane is experiencing such violent turbulence, that my handwriting—my one true talent—is sloppy and sloped the wrong direction.
When left without the habitual escape of modern technology, I can almost always turn my imagination to the setting just past Sparkle but one notch below Outlandish. Right in that sweet spot is where the magic happens and the world is new and fresh and tastes like California oranges and burned marshmallows.
Maybe there really is a writer buried in all that rhetoric.