I was so close to having the entire row to myself, when he asked if he could sit in the window seat. I closed my book, so I could unfold my 6’1” body and grant him entry. I never ended up opening the book for the rest of the flight. Or maybe I did, until he started talking, at which point, I probably set my pen or index finger as bookmark, to clearly indicate that my attention is elsewhere.
He’s telling me about the island he lives on. And without prompting, he tells me that the Indigenous people that truly own the land his home is on have permission to use his coast to fish or something like that. He feels good about this and dirty about this. He doesn’t say this, because he has the bravado of a traveling salesman who has branded himself as a motivational speaker.
I tell him about my mentor who was just murdered, who introduced me to Native American literature. The book I finally put a bookmark in is one I never read when she assigned it to me in class a few lifetimes ago.
He takes this as a bond, a sign we were meant to meet, in the back of this Southwest airplane, going from Oakland to Seattle.
He tells me about how a Hollywood actress once accused him of rape the first time she met him. At some point, he touches my knee and makes a point to compliment me on my ability to accurately read the predatory intent—or lack thereof—of a touch.
I wonder what recourse I would have had up in the sky. I wonder what kind of person brings up rape allegations to a stranger on an airplane. I wonder if this Hollywood actress remembers this guy. I wonder if her then boyfriend feels bad for believing this guy over his girlfriend, regardless of the truth. I wonder if that’s why they broke up.
This guy has the shmaltz of my ex, so I can’t turn away. He is providing all the intimacy I could hope for from a stranger while floating up in the air, somewhere over the Pacific Northwest. I talk to him right through the landing, about all the things we have in common and how similar we are, even though neither one of us has revealed anything about ourselves, I suspect.
As we wait for 23 rows to deplane ahead of us, I tell him how everytime my brother and I say goodbye, we very dramatically scream out, “Goodbye forever!” Our mom hates the morbidity of it. We love the drama.
I break free first, because I had the good sense to stow my carryon in a logistically strategic overhead compartment. He had to fight his way back a few rows. As I moved down the aisle away from him, he lamented loudly, “Goodbye forever!”
Only to run up behind me in the airport a few minutes later.
We discuss my disdain for slow walkers—which is the kind of unkindness I don’t try to reign in when traveling—until Sea-Tac takes me left to rental cars, as it sweeps him up an escalator to the outside and all the people he will motivate I suppose.
As he boards the escalator, he cries out “Goodbye forever,” startling the person behind him. We stare at each other as he moves slowly to the next floor and appreciate just how long it is taking him to get out of my life.
Megan Cannella (@megancannella) is a Midwestern transplant currently living in Nevada. For over a decade, Megan has bounced between working at a call center, grad school, and teaching. She has work in or forthcoming from Versification, The Daily Drunk, (mac)ro(mic), Taco Bell Quarterly, and Perhappened.