Flying High

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“Mind if I sit near the window?” The Boy, my boy, nods his assent, so I squeeze his ass and slip into the leather seat.

The jet slides inside the sky, and gravity pushes me against my chair: soft as a bed, I feel it from heel to head. We’re angling into the air, entering the blue blurring with the Pacific. I watch the earth fall off, like a silk nightie slipping to the floor, and the outside shrinks: the ocean waves smooth into regular rolls, then tiny splashes, and finally just a pretty pattern played up by the sun. Just a product for my pleasure.

We keep climbing.

My face almost kisses the glass, almost steams the window as I watch: the Santa Monica pier is a strip thinner than the strap of my dress sliding off my shoulder, and the 405 freeway is as wide as the lock of hair falling into my face. I look across the blue, and see another plane mirroring us. I wonder if that jet also holds a girl in first-class, her foot arched in rose gold evening sandals, her back slightly bent as she leans to watch her world become a grain of sand.

Everything feels fresh from flying high, and I’m all perspective now: Los Angeles life looks so small, but the possibilities of pleasure in the world grow limitless.

We keep climbing.

Arching back over the ocean, now there’s a sheet of clouds covering the body of the city, but I peak through. I’m sure I can see The Boy’s house, maybe that speck of purple are the satin panties I left in his bathroom. But his acre of land may as well be an inch of skin.

We keep climbing.

Suddenly there’s a strange wrinkle of mountains dusted with snow. It looks like a layer of powder sugar to me, waiting to be licked off, but maybe just a foot of it has kept people inside their bed for longer than my flight. I blink, and before I’m wrapped back into my trip, we’ve glided over the range and into the desert.

I glance back at The Boy, then return to my window. I think we’re riding over the ocean again, until the land hugging a giant circle of water is revealed. The lake’s waves make that same pretty pattern in the sun, and I wonder if I could reach out my window and pinch the lake, and drag its fabric into bed clothes.

I forget that in a country of clouds: the sun bounces off the mist, making the clouds–maybe nine?–like a mirrored ceiling. The sun’s following me, watching its reflection in the fancy fog, and I imagine jumping out the plane, and plowing through the cotton. My feet would sink a little, like standing on a mattress and its rumpled sheets, but if I ran fast enough I’d never fall through. I’d just live in the sky, in my heaven on earth.

The plane plateaus, we’ve climaxed. I lean back in my chair, satisfied.

“What were you looking at?” asks The Boy.

I kiss his head, sliding my hand under his dark blanket. “Nothing.”

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