A Theory

It’s 2 PM, 35,000 feet in the air.

Two drinks in and we are gleeful, constricted in a tight row of seats.

He draws with close-mouthed fervor, an earnestness in the flick of his hand,

how it dances across the page. Marker flails, thick black lines

stain sketchbook pages.

Curves and corners outline

a laugh, a scroll; he’s muted, concentrated, eyes stare at

printed page and brows morph into one, fine line inches across forehead, lower lip hangs

low, he’s focused. I watch.

Just once he looks at me;

searching for a hidden treasure beneath the freckles on my cheeks.

I smile. Should I not watch? Too much pressure?

Shakes his head and continues. I stare, mouth slightly agape, saliva drying

on my swollen, chapped lips. I have no words but cannot wait for him to spill his--

let them tumble from his wide mouth. I am eager to eat them

like the crumbs on our pull out table.

I expect no vulnerability and am taken aback--

pulled by turbulence,

pushed over the edge by shock of candor. He reveals genuine understanding and evaluation.

He’s thought of me on his own.

He has made assumptions, he’s drawn conclusions. Theories are proven right, right now; courage, he says, reliable, attractive. I have a contagious personality.

He comprehends messages of the past-

You were hurt before, and I get that. He hopes for my bright future-

You’re always a little scared, but you’re brave

enough to look over the edge.

We’re six drinks in and almost six hours later, we have never been closer.

Six minutes until landing and I grip and I dig into the palm of my hand,

desperate to cause any type of pain to distract my

mind from the rough ride,

deep crescent wounds litter my hands.

He distracts me with jokes.

Unbeknownst to him, my ride was better than it could have been--

I was next

to him and though

he’d said, You’ll hate me by the end of the flight, I don’t--

I’d told him, I already do.

He is fine, he thinks the worst of himself

but can’t seem to stop loving himself either.

I chastise him for it, the blistering narcissist in him

does not walk away from his reflection, not even for a

moment. And still, he tolerates my antics, and I his.