How many people go from one big city to another? Annie counted along the line at the gate: at least a hundred, maybe a hundred and ten, some plugged into headphones, others with books in their hands as they stood, many snacking or sipping. Annie had a headache and then some. She had been out too late drinking too much, and she had ended the evening unwisely with a couple from the bar. Whatever she had done in those early-morning hours had been mean, even the things that produced pleasure for her and for others, and the meanness hadn't yet left her. The less said, the better, she thought. The man in front of her hadn't gotten the memo. He was saying more, about everything: about the weather and about sports teams and about different ways of lacing up shoes. He settled, finally, on a topical matter. “The biggest difference between a car and a plane,” he said, “is that if we were driving we could stop along the way. Strongsville, Youngstown, Snow Shoe, Drums.” The woman standing next to the man lowered her coffee from her lips. “What are you talking about?” she said. “Did you have a stroke?” The man shook his head. “Those were the places on the way,” he said. “I remember them from when I was a kid, when we would all get in the car and go. That’s the biggest difference with a plane. If you stop along the way, it’s first of all unscheduled and second of all never a good thing.” The woman raised her coffee, lowered it, raised it again. She had the appearance of an animatronic. “When you’re right you’re right,” she said. They were looking at each other. Something leaked from their eyes that Annie figured was love. She hoped to the heavens that she wouldn’t be sitting near them on the plane. It was the kind of thing that could make a girl pray for an unscheduled stop.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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