#skyday

After nearly breaking my brother’s hand and saying more “Our Fathers” than an elderly Catholic nun during takeoff, the plane I’m currently in moves smoothly 37,000 feet above the surface of the Earth. 37,000 feet. It’s a whole different world up here. Clouds live at this level, collecting in great puffy spires and columns. You half-expect to see an angel pop out from inside of one—or at least I do, given my nature to imagine the next-to-impossible as being quite probable—

We cut through one of the spires and the plane shakes, sending a jolt through my stomach that is none too comfortable. Turbulence. Every time it hits, I wonder why humans ever felt the need to conquer the skies, why they couldn’t be content with their lot on the ground and in the sea. We don’t belong here, where the clouds control and command. (We don’t exactly belong in the sea, either, but that’s beside the point.) The skies are for the birds—the real ones, not ones made of metal that thrive on gasoline.

And this is the thought that comes to me here, at the top of the world.

“My God. Don’t you ever take a break from those deep thoughts of yours? I swear, one day you’re gonna get a headache from thinking so hard.”

I shoot the man in the (empty) seat next to me a look of blunt daggers, which he meets with one of his trademark sweet-natured smiles.

“Still in the Sandman shirt, I see.”

“What?” In typical male fashion, he pulls the shirt away from his chest, distorting the Dream King’s face as he smells the fabric. “It’s still clean.”

“Is it now?”

“This is only the second time I’ve worn it.”

I let out a chuckle and become aware of how much I sound like my mother. “For the record, I have been known to use that same excuse on my parents.”

“Duly noted,” he says, “and countered with the argument that if you use it on your parents, then it’s perfectly acceptable for me to offer up the same excuse in question.”

This is ridiculous. Here I am, 37,000 feet in the air, and I’m…pretty sure I’ve just lost an argument, essentially, to myself.

“Where’s your brother?” he asks suddenly, looking around. “Wasn’t he sitting up here with you?”

I jerk my thumb several rows behind us. “He moved to sit back there with my dad after takeoff. I guess he didn’t like the fact that I nearly broke his hand, and it seems some people didn’t show up for their seats, so… Hey, don’t change the subject!”

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry… But, why does it matter so much? It’s not like anyone’s gonna smell me if I stink.” He pauses. “Well, except you.”

“Exactly. And I’m not the type of person who hangs out with stinky…”

“Figments,” he offers.

“People,” I counter.

He smiles a little bit, amused with the knowledge that even after all this time, I still have trouble fully acknowledging what he is.

“People,” he repeats. “Well, you have nothing to worry about; as long as you don’t envision me in mud or something like that, whether I smell and how badly or not won’t be an issue.”

“That’s a plus, I guess. But does that mean I’m responsible for dressing you, too?”

His smile widens into a saucy, Cheshire-Cat grin.

“Would you like to be?”

A roll of the eyes is my only reply. The gesture neutralizes his grin, softening his expression to a level of studious concern.

“You look tired.”

“Probably because I’ve been up since three this morning,” I answer, watching curiously as he pulls out and studies an emergency card customarily found in airplanes. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t look up from the card. “You know this ‘crash position’ business is to make sure that the crash actually kills you?”

“Is it now?”

Nodding, he shows me the picture of the pose in question—the one of people bent over in their seats at the waist, head nearly between their knees. I have no shame in admitting that the picture is quietly alerting the nervous paranoia I’ve been good enough to keep at bay so far.

“It’s apparently the easiest way for someone to break their neck in a high-collision impact,” he continues, “because it’s cheaper for the airlines to pay death settlements.”

“That’s just a myth,” I mutter, trying not to focus too hard on what he’s saying.

“Really?”

“Yeah. They even proved it was false on that one show.”

“What show?”

“You know…that…one show. Mythbusters—that’s what it’s called. Mythbusters. The episode was actually on last night, if you could believe it.”

“Huh.” He slides the card back into the pocket of the seat in front of him. “That’s kind of a fucked-up thing to watch before a flight, don’t you think? Especially for someone like you?”

“Yeah, well… They proved it was false, so…”

But sitting where I am, with the type of fears and imagination that I have, I can’t help but wonder if maybe Jaime and Adam may have miscalculated somewhere. I’m no math or science major, but even I know that the prospect of surviving a crash from this height is…probably not good for a person like me to think about. Before I know it, the nearly full cup of water is gone in a single nervous gulp. My (invisible) companion sighs, and in a gesture of sympathy takes my hand in his, naturally pale fingers interlacing with my own.

“Go to sleep,” he suggests.

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

“No way,” I mutter. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

A frightening jolt passes through my stomach as the plane shakes on its way through another cloud tower. Judging from the grimace blooming on his face, I have a feeling he just became my second attempt to break someone’s hand today. The shaking stops, and with an apology I loosen my grip enough for him to move his fingers.

“That’s why,” I tell him. “Turbulence. The greatest pain in the ass since street corners without ramps, and you expect me to be able to sleep through it?”

“You’ll hardly notice—in fact, won’t notice it at all,” he reasons. “Trust me, you’ll be on land before you know it.”

“Trust you. Sure. I’ll fall asleep and the minute turbulence hits I’ll wake up scared and you’ll be—”

A finger pressed to the lips and a pair of hazel eyes concerned for my well-being is all it takes to shut me up. Really, sometimes I wonder if maybe I’m too predictable for my own good.

“I promise you, I’ll be here the entire time. You can keep hanging on to my hand if you want, and I promise I won’t let go. But just try to get some rest, because we both know that jet-lag’s a bitch.”

We laugh quietly at that, and then my gaze shifts outward, to the skyscape that exists at the top of the world. Tall spires and columns of puffy grays and whites, interrupted occasionally by a view of the world below. Humans were probably never meant to soar this high, but that we have the means to do so probably says something about us.

Lips press softly at my cheek, and then against my own lips when I turn my head. And it’s weird, how a simple, innocent (imaginary) kiss can make me willing to sleep in the last place I’d consider it safe to do so. I suppose he could make me do just about anything, if he kissed me first…and again I wonder if it’s because I’m simply too predictable.

A simple adjustment of the armrest between us, and I’m resting my head on his shoulder.

“If you get scared,” he says softly, “feel free to squeeze the life out of my hand; it’s not like I’ll be needing it for anything important any time soon.”

A drowsy smile is all he gets before I drift off, breathing in the faint scent of him all the while. Coffee, cigarettes and white roses… Why he smells particularly that way, I don’t think I’ll ever know. But it’s strangely familiar and comforting, in that way certain things just are—without reason or need for reason.

So I drift. And strangely, I dream of tea parties full of Mad Hatters and March Hares. It’s all vague and out of focus—the way old photographs tend to be—until a voice calls my name softly, softly…like a whisper on the wind. Slowly, almost reluctantly, I come back to myself…and spend a few minutes wondering just where the hell I am. Everything is too brightly lit by the afternoon sun to see clearly. And then a familiar voice calls to me—

“Ma’am?”

—but it’s not his.

“Ma’am?” The stewardess from earlier smiles down at me. “Ma’am, we’ve just landed; the aisle chair should be here shortly to transport you to your wheelchair outside.”

Still a bit dazed, I nod slowly. “And my dad and brother?”

“You got the rest of the bags?”

They shuffle down the empty aisle of the plane, carry-ons and suitcases dangling from shoulders, elbows and hands. My brother pauses to adjust the backpack at his shoulder before joining my dad near the row of seats behind mine.

“Well that answers that question…”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah…fine. I slept, um…really well.” With a chuckle, I rub my eyes. “Trying to fight that jet-lag, y’know?”

He merely nods and adjusts the strap running diagonally across his chest. “Me and your brother are gonna go outside and make sure your chair is out there, so just stay here and wait until they bring you the—”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you guys outside.”

And shuffling as they do under the weight of literal baggage, they make their way out and off the plane. The stewardess disappears towards the tail end of the plane with a quick smile—perhaps to get her things—and I’m…well…almost alone.

“So?”

I can’t resist a smile. “So…you were right.”

He laughs a little. “You see? I told you. And I kept my promise.”

“Yes…that, you did. So I guess this means a vacation from Texas doesn’t entail a vacation from you, does it?”

“Not in the least!” he answers, patting my hand.

“Excuse me…”

Startled, I look up to see a young man with eyes the color of coffee looking inquisitively down at me. I wonder how long he’s been there, and how crazy he probably thinks I am for talking to people who aren’t really there. But he doesn’t say anything outside of asking if I was the one who needed the aisle chair he’s brought with him. Considering I’m the only passenger left sitting in the plane, I don’t think this is something one needs the Scooby Gang to figure out. But embarrassed as I am with being caught, I withhold any potential smart-ass remarks and simply ask him to help me into what essentially is a baggage cart for people.

If this is any indication of how the next three weeks are going to be, then I’m going to have to be more careful about when and where I talk to…well…myself, essentially.

But strangely—or perhaps not so strangely—that prospect doesn’t worry me as much as it probably should.

“Welcome to Puerto Rico,” one of the pilots calls out as we pass them on the way off the plane. The Spanish in his accent makes me smile.