An abrupt end to expectations

                Finally, he stopped paying attention to the girl, sitting alone, listening to music. Or rather, he tried to stop thinking about her. What kind of a derelict person spends an entire plane ride listening to music? This is a moment of pure wasted time. The only way to combat that was to read or sleep, though he leaned toward reading. Listening to music was something you could do anytime. On the plane you had the luxury of uninterrupted time. It slightly annoyed him what a colossal waste of time this plane ride was for her.

                The plane had arced around, and the pilot was telling him how far away they were from their destination and about the weather in distant cities, which was, you have to admit, still a rather strange thing to know about somewhere else. Aw, the weather, something everyone had in common. Sixty six degrees was sixty six degrees whether you regarded it as perfect or still too cold. He glanced out the window, seeing a vast wall of grey clouds that signified nothing. He didn’t like to look too long at the plane’s wing because it seemed absurd that something so small could be keeping them aloft. It was the jet engine, he knew, but still, a young boy learns the joy of flight through wings. He learns it by watching birds and sending small paper airplanes aloft. What a miracle flight was!

                The girl was scrolling through her iPod, trying to pick the perfect song for cruising towards the Rockies. He thought whether it would be polite to make a suggestion to her or point out something stupid, like the in-flight magazines. The trick of starting any conversation is figuring out what the two of you might have in common. Unfortunately, merely finding someone attractive is rarely considered good grounds for striking it up. His mind searched frantically. They both were wearing shoes? Maybe he could ask her about the weather? Her music had started again. He wasn’t really ever going to talk to her.

“What are you reading?” she asked, rather suddenly, breaking up what he’d assumed was going to be a silence that lasted five hours, broken only by a request to go the bathroom and concluded with a wry and knowing smile about the rigors of air travel.

“Uh, Daisy Miller?” he answered, checking the title of the book surreptitiously to make sure he wasn’t lying. 

What had he been reading? It was possible that she was a reader and interested in figuring out his tastes, making a recommendation. It was also possible that she was bored of her music, or in a transition moment, moving between music and a book or work of her own that she intended to get done, and she was just trying to pass the moment in a normal and comfortable way. It was also possible that she was from the south, though he hadn’t initially detected it in her accent, and was being polite as a cultural more.

It was also possible, though perhaps less likely that she had asked him about the title of his book because she wanted to strike up a conversation with him, had found him attractive, wanted to see if he was interesting, maybe strike up a long distance relationship after the flight where they’d write each other letters of increasing significance and maybe visit once a month until they could get properly engaged and eventually wind up having a lot of really beautiful and amazing children that would take after her. It was possible.

It was also possible that she was going to ask him a bunch of vapid questions and waste the precious time that he was hoping to devote to the stories of Henry James. From up close she wasn’t quite as pretty as he’d first thought. Though he found this tended to be true for roughly everyone, himself included. Looking at someone from really close you tended to notice things, blemishes, or certain asymmetries that the mind tends to blot out when first looking at someone. He was certain that the same was true in his case, and it was just one of those things that was a further reinforcement of that old adage about beauty fading. It happened rapidly.

“I’ve never read anything by, Henry James. Who is he?”

She didn’t even know who Henry James was? Did she grow up under a rock? Was she from some backwoods school in Kentucky?

“He’s a famous American author from the late 19th and early 20th century. Kind of a realist.  If you’re familiar with the term? His descriptions are spot on.”

“Hmmm, maybe I’ll read him sometime. My boyfriend is always trying to get me to read, but they are mostly sci-fi type things, Star Wars and the like that I’m just not interested in.”

Had he come on too strong by mentioning that Henry James was a pretty great realist? Maybe he shouldn’t have used the phrase, spot on. Perception is an amazing thing. With a single ominous word she had just changed the entire tenor of their conversation. Sadly, there would be no beautiful children, no drives to the country. Hell, they might not even talk for the rest of the flight. He was already looking forward to offering her a wry smile and wishing her a good time on her trip to visit her boyfriend.