(no subject)
About Sin.
Hours:
The flight from the UK to the US is 14, almost 15 hours on any given day. The flight is crowded and he can hear babies crying from the back seats next to the closet-cum-toilet. His head is pounding, but he does not want it to crush his high. He has been home for weeks and weeks. What is a few hours on a crowded plane?
He is still wearing the sweater that he wore on his last sailing trip of the vacation. It was chilly out on the water, and the sweater was soaked through with the spray by the time he made it back home. But he had to see it, one last time before he left. He had to see the sunset at the end of his world where there was nothing but water in front of him and behind him and surrounding him with its entirety. He lay back on the deck long after the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon marking the edge of the world, letting the boat rock a little aimlessly as he stared at the stars. He is still wearing it on the plane, breathing in that smell of salt and wind and home that has just made him safe and ache for home again.
He has the tray table down in front of him, a book and the cup of ice that will eventually melt. He has a seat by the window, cramping his long legs, but at least promising him that no one will try to walk by him. He has hours and hours to spend watching whatever movie will be playing. And he does not mind it at all. It is just a hiccup in his day. He got up to catch a plane at 5, and he will be back in Boston by dinner, at least.
His hair is sticking up at odd angles, he knows. He barely got any sleep last night, all of his effort being taken by bringing his little boat back to the slip behind his uncle’s house, by packing, by anything but relaxing. He had made it back just in time to slip in the car and go go go. There is salt water in his hair, and he should have showered before he got on the plane, if only for the sake of being cleaned of the sea salt that is clinging to him even now. He licks his lips, and tastes it there as well, and he holds the flavor a moment longer before washing it away with another rattle of ice cubes in his empty cup. He was not fit for public consumption, but that early in the morning, no one looked at him any different.
He is toying with the idea of calling home, to say he will be there tonight. He had left without a word, and he figured it was only fair to do the same on the way back. The phone remains in its cradle in the armrest beside him, all thoughts of calls forgotten. He cannot even bring himself to call Pacie. He should, he knows. He sent her home weeks ago, kissing her hands and lips and promising to be home shortly. He promised, but he never specified how short ‘shortly’ was. He should call her, to explain that he meant to come to her sooner. He should call and explain what he said. He should tell her what he was supposed to say but never figured out how to say it.
Hours:
The flight from the UK to the US is 14, almost 15 hours on any given day. The flight is crowded and he can hear babies crying from the back seats next to the closet-cum-toilet. His head is pounding, but he does not want it to crush his high. He has been home for weeks and weeks. What is a few hours on a crowded plane?
He is still wearing the sweater that he wore on his last sailing trip of the vacation. It was chilly out on the water, and the sweater was soaked through with the spray by the time he made it back home. But he had to see it, one last time before he left. He had to see the sunset at the end of his world where there was nothing but water in front of him and behind him and surrounding him with its entirety. He lay back on the deck long after the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon marking the edge of the world, letting the boat rock a little aimlessly as he stared at the stars. He is still wearing it on the plane, breathing in that smell of salt and wind and home that has just made him safe and ache for home again.
He has the tray table down in front of him, a book and the cup of ice that will eventually melt. He has a seat by the window, cramping his long legs, but at least promising him that no one will try to walk by him. He has hours and hours to spend watching whatever movie will be playing. And he does not mind it at all. It is just a hiccup in his day. He got up to catch a plane at 5, and he will be back in Boston by dinner, at least.
His hair is sticking up at odd angles, he knows. He barely got any sleep last night, all of his effort being taken by bringing his little boat back to the slip behind his uncle’s house, by packing, by anything but relaxing. He had made it back just in time to slip in the car and go go go. There is salt water in his hair, and he should have showered before he got on the plane, if only for the sake of being cleaned of the sea salt that is clinging to him even now. He licks his lips, and tastes it there as well, and he holds the flavor a moment longer before washing it away with another rattle of ice cubes in his empty cup. He was not fit for public consumption, but that early in the morning, no one looked at him any different.
He is toying with the idea of calling home, to say he will be there tonight. He had left without a word, and he figured it was only fair to do the same on the way back. The phone remains in its cradle in the armrest beside him, all thoughts of calls forgotten. He cannot even bring himself to call Pacie. He should, he knows. He sent her home weeks ago, kissing her hands and lips and promising to be home shortly. He promised, but he never specified how short ‘shortly’ was. He should call her, to explain that he meant to come to her sooner. He should call and explain what he said. He should tell her what he was supposed to say but never figured out how to say it.