fuselage

I awaken on an airplane at night crossing over a dark ocean far from home and moving farther. I can't remember where I'm going. Brain foggy, I look up the aisle and that's when I see her a few rows ahead, wearing a red knit sweater and blue corduroy pants, dark hair falling in loose curls, ivory wrist dangling prettily off the armrest like a dead leaf about to fall. The seat next to her is empty. Without thinking, I stand and the plane tilts down, pulling me toward her. When I reach her aisle, I hesitate, but turbulence shakes me into the seat. Hi, I say. Hello, she answers. Our words tumble out drowsily, naturally, as if resuming a conversation briefly interrupted. The memory of each exchange fades with the sound of the words, narrowing my focus to now, and only now. Oh, before I forget, she says, producing a pen and paper. She writes and hands me the page, a haiku in large curving letters: death is here outside / your peripheral vision / no reason to fear I grow light-headed as if there'd been a drop in altitude. She laughs knowingly, flashing her teeth. It's okay, she says, there's still time. And she leans her head on my shoulder. Her soft hair brushes my left cheek, and I freeze not knowing what to do. Her hand touches my left thigh, and I don't dare move. Gradually, I lean back and her hand wraps inward. The plane stops mid-air, hovering silent over the surface of the waters. We sit motionless, listening to our breaths intermingle, so warm, so light. The fuselage sinks below the surface and curious sea creatures glide over its wings like living air molecules. She nuzzles my neck and sighs, I've missed you. Black memories stirring, I look past into the watery void and ask, How long have we been apart? Forever, she answers. The lights flicker out.