Nothing changed

                The conversation died down shortly thereafter. She was back listening to music and musing on her visit with her boyfriend would go, and he was back to considering the fiction of Henry James, James’ steely commitment to reality. The drinks were served. H got a ginger ale with ice. When his drink was done, he sucked on the pieces of ice, cold, though not too cold to discourage him. The cabin smelled vaguely bad as most cabins do. Three seats ahead of him a couple was trying to quiet a baby by occasionally walking down the aisle, a bottle held at the ready in case the infant ever stopped crying. It had to be the ears. There was no telling whether the infant was feeling as bad as it sounded or whether infants just have a tendency towards drama. Give the kid an Oscar for best imitation of a stereotype.

                Though he believed in the afterlife rather fervently, H wasn’t sure what the afterlife might look like. He had heard people say that it would be boring, and he had vague pictures of people strumming harps, clouds and ethereal light. Later in life he’d learn to blame the Renaissance painters for that image of heaven. Part of the reason that he couldn’t picture heaven was that he couldn’t imagine what people would do there to pass the time. If it really was joining into some corporate prayer and song worship thing then maybe it would be fine to just have harps and clouds. At root he understood that most people’s conception of heaven had a great deal to do with their own wants and desires since no one could ever cross that threshold and report back. The veil between life and death was constantly being invoked throughout literary history precisely because of its opacity. Any recollection or thoughts about it tended towards, wouldn’t it be great if, or something along those lines.

                They were flying over a small body of water, maybe one of the Great Lakes. The girl, Lauren, why couldn’t anyone he met ever be named something dramatic, was listening to her iPod in a daze. The stewardess came by and asked if they wanted peanuts.  He did not. The reason that he still knew Lauren, or thought of Lauren was beyond his control, it was not kismet. When the turbulence first hit everyone on the flight remained calm. H started white knuckling the seat but didn’t notice any change in the people around him, any sign that they were bothered by being miles above the ground. The second bit, much stronger, sent a few trays snapping down and one person had the audacity to yell, “Oh, shit,” as the plane lurched and then steadied. Lauren put down her iPod and smiled at him.