You've stashed your tie in your briefcase, freed your collar, and slackened your belt a notch or two. You gave it yourĪll, and for once your all was good enough to placate a boss who fears for his own job. All week you've been out hustling, courting hot prospects in franchised seafood bars and steering a rented Intrepid along strange streets that didn't match the markings in your atlas. Your own work is done, though, temporarily. One fellow lowers his plastic window shade and wedges his head between two skimpy pillows, while another unlatches his briefcase, looks inside, then shuts his eyes and rubs his jaw, exhausted. For some of them this means a longer day, for others it means eating Their sentences kept short to save on tolls, and when they hang up they face the windows, sigh, and reset their watches from Central time to Mountain. Their voices are bright but shallow, no diaphragms, Other businessmen who switch on their laptops and call up lengthy spreadsheets or use the last few moments before takeoff to punch in cell-phone calls to wives and clients.
It's wet outside, the runways streaked and dark. The jaunty male flight attendant brings our drinks: a two percent milk with one ice cube for me, a Wild Turkey for you. You crack your paperback, last spring's big legal thriller, convinced that what you want is solitude, though I know otherwise: you need to talk. I'm the aisle, you're the window-trapped.
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