In Flight

You fly in and you realise you could be anywhere. The black spaces between the blinking lights and glowing buildings, HSBC signs and airport markers could be the palms of Honolulu; the parks and creeks of Sydney; the farms of the delta near Vancouver. The airport is much the same, and you lean in to drink cold water from a fountain, knowing where you are but imagining it's somewhere else. If it's a transfer, even better - the reality doesn't matter. You can be anywhere you want.

I open a foil packet of chips, tearing the packet carefully to spread it across the bar. A familiar chime rings in from a distant wing and an announcement is read in Japanese. I can only make out two words; O'Reilly, Bill. I'm Bill, but not O'Reilly. I have to listen again. She certainly said O'Reilly. The flight number is foreign as well, so I'm safe to return to my task of spreading the chip packet squarely in front of me.

Would you like a chip? I ask an old man wearing a hearing aid who's sitting beside me. I slide the square towards him. He looks at me, grey eyes behind thick glasses, then stands up, takes his book and leaves. I take a chip, crush it, press a crumb between my fingers until the oil has wet my fingers. I eat one or two.

Can I get another Heineken? I ask.

You hide from things, in the spaces between reality. The no places, like this. On the second leg I don't watch the movies or listen to the radio channels or read the thick book I've slipped in the meshing in front of me (between the in-flight magazine and the laminated safety sheet). I keep the television on the channel that shows you how far you are from your destination in three languages, the wind speed and your precise location above the Earth. Somewhere above the Middle East I figure it's the perfect place for an emergency to occur requiring an unplanned and violent landing.

Refreshments? Orange juice, tea coffee? asks the attendant.

Could I get a club soda, please? I ask.

Would you like lemon? she asks.

I wake up when my ears begin to pop and my chest tightens from the descent. People begin to remove their headsets and the attendant is clearing empty plastic containers on dinner trays. The air is heavy. I missed an omelette.

When you've broken through the soupy fog you notice something along the black river that places you in London. That building, round and green, tall along the south bank of the Thames. It would be nothing in any other city, just a tower, but here it's a monstrous egg - an abberation. You remember that Heathrow waits for you and the tube ride and the apartment in Chelsea and you wait for everyone else to file out and into the cold night before you grab your bags from the overhead compartment and say goodbye to the attendant at the front and thank-you to an airport employee in a flurescent orange vest.

Someone waits for me in the quitely milling group at Arrivals but she looks different, wearing a coat I haven't seen before. She smiles and I frown a little and look down but when I reach her I slip my arm into hers and kiss her on the cheek.

Can we talk? I ask.

Let's get you home first, she says. And home is what you get.