Issue Three

A.A. GARRISON
late. Sensing this, he wrapped up his
confession, now unloading The Big One:
"I told my ex I hated her, last year," he
said, crying softly, shamelessly, like it
was the most natural thing in the
world. "Threw my ring down the toilet,
tore up her pictures, said I never wanted
to see her again." He looked due
forward as he spoke, not really talking to
the blonde, but not not talking to her,
just talking to anyone. To the cabin at
large. To the headrest in front of
him. To the laughing girl on the in-flight
movie. "I'm sorry, Beth. So, so sorry ..."
He continued playing with the mousy
woman's hand, squeezing, squeezing,
squeezing, and he ignored The
Laugher, the Screamers, the sparring
men on the floor, the screwing couple at
his flank and everything else. For now,
it was only him and the hand.
He started to say more, then realized
there was no more, he'd confessed it all
and that felt good. He consigned
himself to the seat and closed his eyes;
keeping at the woman's dead hand,
squeezing and ratcheting and teasing
like they were lovers, and that was
good, that was okay. The demented
noises continued from everywhere, but
that was okay, too, even beautiful -- all
okay, let 'em scream, amazing grace,
how sweet the sound.
Then the plane hit and the people went
silent forever.