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View | Nov 12 2002

I’m in an airplane. I have a window seat. We’re flying. Another plane is flying next to us, the tip of its wing just a few feet from the tip of our wing. The two wingtips move a bit closer, a bit farther apart, a bit higher, a bit lower.

I don’t spend much time looking out the window. In fact I try not to look that way at all. When I do look, I see that the other plane has an open window over the wing and that a woman, M, has walked out onto the wing. From inside the plane, a man is holding her wrist. I cannot see the man but I know who it is.

This tableau has been pretty much the same for several hours now.

Sometimes I look and M has changed her position, moving one foot in front of the other or turning her shoulders slightly.

On my own plane they’re serving dinner.