The woman in the window
seat had the sumptuous textures and
neutral taste of
incredible wealth: tan skin, glossy hair, a pretzel
of black pashmina around
her neck. In the end it is grooming (and the
guarantee of its endless
maintenance, on safari or mid-flight) that
sets the baronesses and
magnates apart from the rest of us.
As I mentally dropped
this rich lady in a vat of Crme de la Mer, two
very different
characters trundled by. They were junior high school boys,
brothers or cousins off
to visit some lucky relative in Brittany,
and they would be seated
directly behind me for the rest of the flight.
I wedged my socked feet
into the magazine pocket and waited for
take-off.
Who would win in a
flight, Ben Affleck or Mark Wahlberg?
Wahlberg. Dude, he is
jacked. I silently agreed.
Yeah. Affleck is like,
a big baby.
He would probably hide
behind Jennifer Garner.
Like that would ever happen.
Impressed that two
preteens could have such perfectly, platonically
preteen conversation, I
peered between the seats to reexamine
my little dialog
generators. One wore a sweater with one stripe across
the chest; the other, a
camouflage t-shirt that said Now you cant see me.
While Ive since learned
that this a common mall t-shirt, I still think its pretty
funny. So sue me!
One was reading to the
other from a pocket compendium of unbelievable
American laws.
Did you know that in
Springfield, Massachusetts, it is illegal to
throw a snowball?
No way!
The beach-colored woman
next to me sighed into her copy of
The Kite Runners.
