Clare and Johnny

I look out the window of the plane and everything looks so small; trees like broccoli, lakes like puddles, mountains that I could skip over, and for a moment I feel big... Imagine all of them down there... All the people I love and hate... Everyone who has ever judged my work... The critics who decided to ruin me, the people who didn’t buy my books. 

Was I stupid to publish?  Was it all crap?  Are they right?  Maybe all the craziness that goes on in my head is really only for me. 

All that existential wrestling aside from up here I could stomp on James Anderson and his review, of which I have memorised every word.  No one would even notice.  My mother always told me, "Johnny don't let others define you.  You define yourself."  I know the words but words really don't lend comfort, especially words of advice.

I have to strain to even see the insignificant little blobs that are those box like dwelling places of the ants who have decided to shred my chances with their clever put together sentences, dripping with spite ... But with my enormous feet, I can crush them and all their words, and I do stepping down and squashing everything.  It all squeezes out from under my feet like play dough and when I lift my foot everything is flat as pancakes.  I pick up James Anderson, columnist, American Publisher, and he says,

"What are you looking at..."

I jump.  A real voice, the girl beside me...  My chest sinks... Doomed to death in a plane... Death by conversation.  Have you ever had good conversation on a plane?

A thousand thoughts flood my head as I turn to face the woman who has addressed me.

"Nothing in particular... Just looking out the window."

She just keeps staring into my eyes until I feel uncomfortable and begin to Colour.

"You look like you're trying to forget something."

Her accent isn't American.  Maybe British, or Irish... Her skin is fair and specked with hundreds of freckles.  

"Do you mind if we just have a normal airplane chat.  Really just the 3-5 minute where are you going.  What do you do and all that jazz?"

I'm annoyed and even as I say it I know I'm being rude, and as a look of surprise blossoms on her face I immediately feel sorry for having said it.

The flight attendant leans over,

"Table up sir, and seat all the way up."

"Oh, right." 

I scramble to put myself in right position for landing.  Somewhere a baby begins to cry and I notice my neighbour has turned her head away.

"I'm sorry.  I just... I'm just having a bad week."

She addresses me again with a sharp look in her eyes which I notice are green.

"Listen, I can’t do normal airplane conversation, I get straight to the point... Small talk is like some kind of disease really... Always keeps us scratching somewhere around the surface.  If you want small talk then talk to your man there...”

She motions to an overweight fellow rushing to the toilet.  My hands are sweating and I don't know what to say.  This kind of thing would usually have me feeling completely out of sorts but I feel that I should take her up on her offer for no other reason than that small feeling rising in my chest.

"We're preparing for landing.  We'll be touching down in Dublin in approximately 10 minutes, that is 420pm local time.  It's a typical Irish day in Dublin.  The sun is hiding and it is rainy with a bit of wind.  We hope you have had a pleasant flight and look forward to seeing you again."

The intercom crackles and the pilots voice melts away.

"What's your name?"

"Clare, what's yours?"

"My name is Johnny."

"Well, Johnny why do you look so sad?"

"You don't mess around Clare."

"Well sometimes I find people react when someone pinpoints something uncomfortably close to the truth"

"You could say I'm trying to forget something?"

I don't know why or how this has come out of my mouth.  I'm a private person... Her eyes remain fixed on me as if digging further and further underneath.

"Would you have coffee with me in the airport?"

She asks this in a rapid spitfire of words, and finishes with,

"I'd love to talk now, but I can't handle the landing.  It's just too much for me."

Her voice has a musical quality and now she dons her face mask.

"Will you hold my hand,"

And before I answer her small supple hand clasp mine over the top of the armrest.

"It would really help me if you could talk me through the landing.  Really that would be a big help."

As she says this I feel my defences withering and falling before her.  I can't describe why... maybe just the way she doesn't give me time to decline or the way she speaks with absolute confidence that her instructions will be followed.

"Well maybe we could grab a quick coffee.  I don't have much of a layover, but yeah why not..."

Her breathing quickens until she seems to be hyperventilating, her small chest pumping up and down.

"Keep... talking... Johnny... don't stop."

May as well talk then...

"Clare you're not having a baby, calm down will you.  Breath slow and deep. 

I speak slowly and as soothingly as I can.

"Oh, Johnny that's lovely.  Don't stop now.  Tell me about yourself."

The wing flaps are now let down and the drag against creates a sort of thunderous noise as if the wings are scraping the sky.  Her hand begins to shake.  I watch as the ground rushes up to meet us.  An obnoxious American man turns in his seat and glimpses Clare beside me.  

"Is she alright?"

Her whole body is shaking and she has gone pale,

"She'll be alright."

He looks questioningly and turns around.

"Johnny..."

She whispers in a rasping voice.  As she does I can feel the pilot levelling the plane for touchdown.

"Just breath Clare... Just breathe."

"Johnny, I'm going to faint.  I'm going to faint."

Her voice is shaky.  How is this happening.  I don't even know this woman... The plane shudders as the wheels hit the ground and Clare's hand goes limp.  I feel myself standing and yelling 

"This girl needs help!"

I see the alarm in the flight attendants eyes as they struggle to decide what to do.