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I'm forced to throw my flowers in the garbage at customs, the pink blossoms crumpling in the bag.
The airport terminal is marked with white tones, bare walls, and cream-colored seats at the gates. Flying lets me feel expansive, looking down at all those tiny houses and swirls of rivers. The clouds, golden and pink in bunches across the sky, are my favorites. The sight always makes me think of Icarus and I hear your voice in the back of my mind, talking of hubris.
I find you before we board and reach for your hand. "Can I have the window?"
You only hum in response. I've forgotten your fear in my selfish want. I squeeze your wrist in my grip and guide us toward the middle of the plane. You sit, stiff, beside me.
The flight attendants come by to serve drinks and you order wine to calm your nerves. I watch your profile as you take a deep sip. Your sweater and facial hair make you look a little less vulnerable. Your chest rises and falls in a breath as you drain the last of the glass.
"Feel better?" I ask and you nod and I am reminded of nights spent together, after the stress of performing.
I open the window shades to view the tarmac. I watch luggage carriers load suitcases into a jet nearby and wonder what centers their conversation.
"They were orchids," you suddenly say and smooth a hand down my blue skirt. You slide your grip up my thigh and threaten to take the fabric with you. "They were cut too short and bound to die anyways."
I look over at you with furrowed brows. Sometimes your kindness bristles me; I'm so surprised by it. "I'm not grieving," I tell you and settle my hand on top of yours. I trace the mound of your knuckle with my fingertip.
A short sound labors in your mouth. Sometimes I manage to catch you by surprise.
"Are we staying at the hotel tonight?" I ask, to drag your mind elsewhere.
"Yes," you respond, and remove your hand from beneath mine to take control. This is how it goes, a pulling back and forth. The beach, the waves, a bird coasting on a breeze with wings outstretched.
I lean to you without losing contact and slide my hand over the rough fabric of your trousers. I grip your inner thigh, near your knee. You breathe a short breath; I sigh into it and recline my head on your shoulder.
"Good." I pinch the seam and watch your muscles tense. You push yourself further into the seat of the plane and the last few passengers file in.
