Time here happens in hurdles. When did I become so good at waiting? Was the skill sneaked into my eighteenth birthday cake? Shh, they have drug-sniffing dogs. No, Waiting Pills are on the list of approved items. My leg still shakes as it has all my life. Dad’s, too. United by our nervous systems. Clouds today have invisible cities, monorails of air among them. Here in Coach we love to be unhappy. But we all bring something to the table. If each of us brought one book on this death machine we’d all be rather well-read. Cosmopolitan, but alone (the way it should be?) because only in movies do we talk to our armrest neighbors, and even less do we fall in love. Am I really so old? To be resigned to it. All I can do is sit, and think, think as we are taken to the sea by gravity. Gravity, don’t ruin thinking for me. At least I finished the Sopranos. I am a space between space and earth. What I want is simple: a space to stretch my fluttering feet. When did my claustrophobia learn that its rage is powerless? (Here, at least [let’s leave elevators and relationships out of it for now]). I’m nearly touching knees with two ugly grown men on either side, but that’s okay—there’s no monorail amongst our ears. We are ancient civilizations on opposite hemispheres: mourning rituals of our very own yet with strikingly similar architecture. Feeling the flyover states in blissful solitude.
Stephanie Ades, Fall 2018