I suppose it is reaction and not decision, but life works that way sometimes. So I spend two hours of a trans-Atlantic flight making out with a woman I’ve never met before and never will see again as the giant airbus rides the unseen turbulence of the jetstream and whatever it is that brings each of us to this moment. Her lips are vanilla and her tongue tastes like American gum, and her body pushes toward mine and mine toward hers in ways offering both heated access and the promise that this will go no further, that we will not exchange even surnames much less phone numbers or bodily fluids richer than saliva.

Between a continent of perpetual pursuit and an island of endless story is the vast emptiness of a storm-filled ocean and the universe of pale blue above. When I reach the other side, I will be welcomed by a silken-black sky filled with millions of stars, a sky I know is North American, for where we stand tells us what we see.

Later, we drift to sleep in adjoining seats 34H and 34I. Below us, salt waves begin to break on cold beaches, a thick megalopolis glows, and dense green mountains hide in a rising dark. When the plane’s wheels touch the concrete at O’Hare, we open our eyes. Perhaps I am slightly embarrassed, but she does not appear to be.

She puts fingers between my legs. Leans toward me. Whispers, “a pleasure groping you.” Reaches for her bags from the overhead compartment. Slides out of sight in the crowd. In the vanishing, I wonder if being open to any adventure means being closed to another set of possibilities. If being committed means being trapped or simply trusted. If movement is in any way compatible with constancy. Or freedom with safety.

Outside the window, it is raining. Inside, people are bringing cellphones to life, calling loved ones in my imagination, though as many might be work connections or simply rides. 

And I wish this plane was a New York subway. I stay in my seat as scenes flip across my vision. A long night on the floor as turf burns on the grate and rain tap dances on the windows. Lighting votives of hope in a cathedral. And words of permanent goodbye in a late morning northside pub. Words of permanent goodbye which, though masked with kindness, slice with the sharpness of the swords of mythic kings. And I wish this plane was a New York subway. That I could stay in this seat and ride back the other way, repeating as necessary. But this path is not that path.

Time drifts until I’m the last passenger off the plane. I say, “Nice flight” to the attendant. She looks at me with recognition and laughs, “Yeah.” But I’m not smiling, so she stops.

• Ira Socol

© 2005 by Ira Socol