Note from the Author: Oh, it continues. This was written on the flight from New York City to Nice.
Flight
My hand is wrapped tightly around the armrest, and if I wasn't so sure I was going to my death, I would be fascinated by the way my knuckles jut sharply through my skin. My grip is harsh to the point of pain, and I squeeze my eyes shut, biting my lip as the giant monster machine growls.
You laughed when you learned I am afraid of flying. "You are fearless!" You exclaimed. "You are unstoppable."
How I wish that was true now. How I pray for the nerve that triggers fear to disappear. I think my fingers may be welded to their lifeline. The plane has tilted its balance, and I press against my seat, hoping to sink into and through it, back to the safety of the solid, predictable earth. I don't dare to open my eyes. This sensation in my stomach of falling can only be a premonition of our impending doom, right?
Your hand closes over mine, your warm fingers prying mine gently away, and I hold onto you instead, finding much more comfort in your touch. You laugh gently and urge me to open my eyes.
I do, and meet yours, and then your gaze strays beyond me, and mine follows unbidden. Through the tiny window, my view shows me the houses sinking away, the land becoming nothing more than a dwarf beneath a sky that dominates. It is beautiful and horrifying, and I say so.
You lean on your hand, a soft smile offered for the wisps of cloud the vehicle tears asunder. You agree quietly, that it is always devastating to realize you're larger than life.
Our fingers lace, and we watch the scenery melt into mist, like a dream forgotten. I smile at the settling of my nerves. We are much larger than life.