On the Plane

We are boarding. A prim late 40ish flight attendant looks suspiciously at the two men in front of me. She nods to them and tries to decide whether or not to smile.

Two men get on the plane in front of me. Aging rockers I would have been totally into in 1986, when we where all younger. One has a black surfing shirt, long straight blond hair and more wrinkles than me. I detect a few strands of gray, many split ends. The other has trimmed long blond hair, a black hat and bandanna around his head. They are friendly and polite, even to the stoic flight attendant. Neither has changed the way they've worn their hair since 1988. Nor have I.

A family. Mother and father with a recently born and a toddler. Occasional screaming comes from a few rows back. This is blissfully peaceful to me, because I am travelling alone and thus the screams convey only one thing. It is not my children who are screaming on this flight.