I noticed her hands first. The skin was taut and time had stretched them towards the inevitable. The inevitableness was what first drew me to her. Decline. Descent. As our plane ascended, the juxtaposition struck me as oddly metaphorical and weirdly prescient.
Where was she going? Who was she? I caught snippets, snatching bits of this woman through my peripheries. Blond. Navy pinstriped suit. On a Friday evening flight, she must be coming back from a business trip. Did she leave sons or daughters at home? What was dad doing? Did she miss them?
She was still young, her blond locks flirted with her shoulders. But her hands betrayed her. She was one of those women who went and partied with girlfriends in dark throbbing clubs to relive moments not five years past. Skin has the qualities of paper.. crinkling and wrinkling just enough to betray their eventual destinations.
Was she thinking of a soirée that night? Or the long cab ride home from the airport? Was she an executive, doling out commands before lugging her tiredness onto seat 24A? She wasn't the PR type. The cut and color of the suit were too somber for that frivolous job.
She turned pages of a glossy magazine. It was an entertainment rag. The author was Klein or Stein. Was she reading to pass the time? Was she interested in Paris and Angelina and Britney that much? Did she somehow see herself in them, in their lives?
Her thighs pressed against her navy pants. They probably were slim once.
I never saw her face. Just enough – just more than the outlines of a middle aged executive on here way to San Francisco – to ponder about the stereotypes. She made me sad – in a way that only business travelers can make me lonely and indignant and wistful all at once.