Sitting in the gray vinyl seat, I stare out the window at the jets zooming down the runway and ascending into the sky. I’ve always loved flying: the feeling of the jet engines kicking in, the plane accelerating, then the ground is falling away. I think it’s the taking off part that I really like after take off, flying becomes pretty routine, like life.

I guess that’s why I’ve never been able to stick with a relationship for very long.

But right now, I watch the jets and shift around in the uncomfortable seats. I hear a child crying, and watch a family with a baby plop down a few seats away. I hope I’m not seated too close. The mother is a slight woman, short and red haired, and she wears sandals. The man looms over her, scruffy and clad in a stained Batman tee shirt. Not attractive. At least she begins to nurse the child a small, sticky-looking bundle of red curls in a blue onesie.

I hear someone mutter disapprovingly, and want to say, “Oh, do you prefer the screams of hungry baby on your four hour flight?”

It doesn’t matter. Soon enough the plane will board, and I’ll be in my seat. Window seat, of course. As soon as possible, the earphones will go in, and I’ll drift away. My mom worries about me being lonely, but I tell her my life is just perfect.

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