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The plane was finally losing altitude; he could feel it getting ready to descend. And now the little signs above flashed on in unison: PLEASE REMAIN SEATED. FASTEN SEATBELTS. One of the flight attendants was coming down the aisle to check, her head turning from left to right. Buckling himself in with difficulty-he had seen that when he touched the belt, his hands practically went through it, prohibiting him from securing it in place-he wondered what Mary was doing with herself at this very moment back on the West Coast. What was she doing in their old bed? She was probably celebrating a new and free life, he thought, filled with plenty of hot sex and single dates with men younger than her, and small excitements of one kind or another-she had always been ripe for excitement. Sitting motionless and angry once more, the rushing sound of the plane's motor filling his ears, he said: "Two-timin' bitch! Broke my heart because of a short man. Took my kids away from me and sent me packing because of a short man. Well, I'm sure I can live without her. And I will." He laughed. "Fucking seatbelt! It won't close!" Fed up, he waved his arms in the air and added: "And why does everything seem so wrong with this…this…I don't know, just this?" His seatmate tried to intervene again. "Miss, if you're having so much trouble with your belt, I'd be happy to help." "Holy fucking shit! Again with the 'Miss'. I told you, buster, I'm not a woman. I'm a man with long hair. And I'm sick and tired of short average men like you stealing people's wives and-" "-I can fix my own belt, thank you very much. I told you, it feels like there's someone or some thing in my seat. I'm not crazy." Brian stood up and entered the aisle to flag down one of the flight attendants. "I'm not crazy!" But the attendant walked through him as if he didn't exist. "What the-" He quickly swung around and felt his own body. Then he looked down at the man in the brown suit, his seatmate who he wanted to complain about to someone in authority. A woman was scrunched up like a ball by the window, where he had been sitting, crying: "I'm terribly sorry. I…I don't know what came over me. It just felt like I was possessed. Something was latching on or preventing me from talking correctly, my perception felt off, and I…I'm not crazy." The man in the brown suit put down his newspaper and leaned over. "It's okay, I believe you. It could have just been turbulence or air sickness, but what did it feel like?" "Like…like a spirit or a ghost or something." Brian backed up in awe. "G-ghost?" Suddenly, a scream arose from outside one of the bathrooms in coach. A flight attendant in training, making sure that all the lavatories were vacant, fell against the door opposite and onto the floor, crying her head off: "A body! It's a body!" Brian hurried down the aisle to see what all the commotion was about, along with a dozen other passengers. Once more, he felt as if people were walking through him and as if reality, from his point of view, had been tampered with. Once more, he felt a weird reaction to so many things, things he might not have noticed a few hours ago when he felt tired and they were over the Midwest-people brushing against him in the crush of the aisle, the bump of a polyester carryon against his leg, the texture of the leather armrest-and when he decided that this was the right time to go to the bathroom. Once again, like the despondent feelings that had planted itself deep in the heart of Denver, everything around him seemed a bizarre but dangerous assault to the senses. Standing outside the bathroom door, he shook his head faintly now. What a pushover he was, he thought, as he stared down at himself. So he couldn't live without her after all. But when the end had come, it was -- despite his sense of shock at there being someone else in her life -- almost a relief, like easing his tired head down on a pillow. Brian Walsh lay sitting on the small toilet seat, slumped over the side of the sink, his wrists and throat cut wide open from the penknife. There was blood all over floor and walls, along with a message smeared on the mirror in red: I'M SORRY, MARY. BUT THANK YOU FOR ALL THOSE YEARS. He had arrived at the end of his air journey, realizing what he had done but wishing he could have remained up there a bit longer.
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* * THE END * * *
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