We grab our bags and head to the gate. We walk in silence. I can see what’s coming, the plane approaching the terminal. I’ll be trapped with her for another six hours. What’s six hours compared to a lifetime, though? It’s like I’m walking up the escalator as it’s going down. I’m stuck where I always am. I am actually walking up the escalator, as people try to push past me. I don’t have the strength anymore to run away. So, I stop and just stand there until I’m carried down. She’s been standing there at the bottom, waiting for me. Always dragging me down. This look is on her face, like she’s the unfortunate one. I get the tickets out as we board the plane. I laugh to myself. Ha! I find what I’m about to do ironic, because she’s always bored and everything to her is plain. I wish they served sedatives rather than nuts. That would be so much more fun. And another thing, would it kill them to hire people who have more than a fifty-percent chance of surviving this flight? I look at the flight attendant as she offers me a drink. I’m praying that she doesn’t die right then and there. “Fuck, you’re old.” I say to her as my wife settles into her chair, “are you the one who made this wine?” My wife smacks me with her magazine. I’m in awe of her swift movement, more than the fact that she hit me. That magazine probably weighs a ton, and I’ve never seen her lift a finger. I guess she is the devil.
I hear a laugh, then I spot this kid sitting a couple of rows ahead of me. He’s been watching us the whole time. I know this, because I used to do the same thing when I was his age. I used to watch people and then give each of them a story. I know which category he has placed me in. I call it ‘The Married Couple’. Two people who coexist with one another, they halfheartedly exchange pleasantries, words are no longer used between them, and the five second rule has been put in place. Any physical contact for more than five seconds is deemed as awkward. I get up and walk over to the kid. Luckily the seat next to him is empty, so I sit down. He gives me this funny look, it’s uncomfortable. I point towards where I was sitting and I ask him to tell me what he thinks. I ask him to tell me the story he just came up with. As he narrates my own story for me, silent tears fill up my eyes. I am watching my own life crash before me, once more in vivid detail. I put my hand on the boy’s knee and tell him “Son, don’t get married.”