The man seated next to me on the plane.

(October 9, 2007)
On the plane from Des Moines to Chicago (on the way to London) I sat next to a guy. He had a softly receding hairline with a pointed nose and small glosy dark eyes. He asked lots of questions, including but not limited to, "Did you go to college?" He reminds me of a bad movie. I don't really know why. He sells things. "Insurance brokering," he tells me. His watch is one of those hi-tech ones that is surely waterproff and rarely taken off. He went to Vienna back in February. "Awful flight," he says, "just couldn't get settled." His shoes have beige stitching and thin black soles. He crosses his legs often. "This heat is killing me," he says, legs crossed, beige-stitched shoes close to my hand, receding hair fluttering in the breeze of the air vent as we wait restlessly on the runway. We take off. 30 miles from O'Hare he calmly clasps his hands together, resting them on his un-stowed tray table, closing his eyes almost reverently. As he sleeps, a sleep I know is a light nap, his adam's apple moves up and down to the tune of his breathing. The man across the aisle from my prayerful, sleeping seatmate strains to read an issue of Hemisphere. He and his wife just finished their complimentary drinks: one tomato juice and one bloody mary mix, both canned. He laughes with her. He compares the labels of their beverages while they wait for the attendant to collect their trash. My seat partner insurance man naps for real this time. We prepare for landing.