pretzels

Sitting in Row 23C, watching all the going ons and people pushing past. Squeezed tight in open aisle-way like words between margins of a line. 27A tries to push past 19E and they get knotted up like pretzels that I already know we’ll get. Businessman in 23B is all business (and upset about having neither an aisle nor a window seat). His suit is something else. Fancy stuff. Leather laptop case to match his…well…something (can’t put my finger on it).

Takeoff time. 23B clenches tight white knuckles against a frigid armrest – wait, no, both arm rests. I wonder why he’s holding on so tight, but my knuckles are just as pale. That’s unfortunate. I see a boy in the next row. His arms are up like he’s on some rollercoaster ride. Like this is all fun and games. I watch him… I miss the ride. Watching him makes my arms decide that relaxing is ok. I want to hold them up like he is. What would people's eyes say? People say he’s just a kid. I can be just a kid. So I place them in my lap. Close my eyes. Imagine that my hands are waving wildly like his – imagine we are flying.

Later on I’ve settled down and settled in, the reality of where I’m headed commandeered my private jet – my rollercoaster ride. We get our pretzels. I watch the boy again, playing with his pretzels, using his whole tray. His pretzels have become legendary warriors, or maybe dinosaurs before extinction, or aliens or birds or something even more magnificent that lives only in the innocence of his imagination. Inspired by his heroic acts, I take my own bag and shake it. What could be inside? Maybe soldiers… or cowboys… or dragons… I can’t wait… I open my bag and find…

…pretzels.