No Angels

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Fiction

The girl in the blue dress is awkwardly looking over her shoulder, then to her left, through the tiny window – towards the midnight floating landscape. She takes a notebook from her fake leather satchel. A journal, one may say. At twenty-eight, she considers that journaling is something to be sneered at, almost concealed with embarrassment. She naively starts a new draft about the world around her and its overwhelming wisdom. 

Earlier in the day, her sister had shared an online article with her. Home is what lies underneath – the journalist writes at an expert pace. She could not agree with him more; still, she concedes that consciousness and feelings, her so-called inner sanctum, are as deserving of being called one’s home as the earth under one’s feet.

This appeases her meandering thoughts. There, there. 

The plane seems to slowly drag along the peaceful sky and Eva and Darshan keep flirting sotto voce. Darshan takes Eva’s hand and slowly caresses the thin, soft creases between her small fingers. She frowns, and then smiles. 

“You have beautiful, well-defined lines, Eva”. He whispers. “Your life will be enjoyable and fulfilling and you will always be surrounded by caring friends and devoted lovers”. He continues. “I see white. I see beautiful shades of pink and pastel blue”. He pronounces with his slightly stilted sub-continental flair. She sighs. “Eva, Eva is the name”. Eva giggles. She touches the tip of her nose, and then proceeds to tickle him under the arm. How inappropriate! – The girl in the blue dress ponders. Then she proceeds to note this down into her slightly travelled journal. 

Eva possesses the hands of an older person – she ruminates. She observes the pair smile without intention and cry with mouths half-opened. Their platonic liaison has become an untold secret. She cannot help but wonder, how they can still be oblivious to the rumors. They are slowly but steadily becoming the office talk over Friday Lambic beers.

The Teutonic flight attendant starts distributing the drinks. Darshan is a tea-total Buddhist. Yet he dares order a pint of the paler shade of ale. His almond eyes start to twinkle; yet the girl in the blue dress reflects (writes down in her notepad) that a CT scan taken at this very moment would barely detect any frontal lobe activity. 

Eva uncomfortably wiggles around her seat. She orders a ham sandwich. She munches it slowly, covering her mouth with her well-read, tiny hands and continues giggling, this time her turn to play at handcraft hermeneutics.

The observer is tempted to protect her eyes and ears with the cupped palm of her hands. However, this midair spectacle is far too entertaining (puzzling and reassuring in equal measure) to be missed out. 

Her velvety blue dress has managed to remain unnoticed during their entire travels. She wishes it to stay this way. Forever subtle yet forever running away from the ominously mundane – as she always has been since birth. 

She silently regrets having tagged along this mindless adventure. The perils of non-solo mid-distance business trips manifesting themselves in blunt daylight. The sunlight glares and burns her eyes. Vampire-like, she licks the corner of her mouth with her twisted tongue, and then purses her lips and produces a deep murmur. It almost resonates like an ohm chant. 

She feels ravenous, yet she continues torturing herself and her depleted stomach – until the time when she will find this self-imposed fasting the most delectable anecdote of the trip. 

Darshan turns around. He remembers they still have an unwelcomed observer. “Should I read yours too?”, he enquires in the most nonchalant manner.  She fixes her stare into his dark brow, returns his blank gaze and slowly but surely, she consents.

She stretches her hand out to him, almost unwillingly.  

Her skin is dry. It’s not winter-cold yet but she’s got a sensitive disposition to fall breezes. Her thin fingers spread evenly in the air, the left wrist spiraling out and so he takes her hand with a firm grasp. He starts the reading with his rather unceremonious demeanor. “Your lines are short. Your lines are…too contorted to read well”. He blurts out, almost burps. There is a moment of silence that seems to instill some enduring penance. 

The girl in the blue dress sonorously sighs and seems to suddenly pass out. The outside screen starts streaming fading dark images that make her levitate into the horizon. 

Darshan coughs and gives back her almost limp hand. The slightest twist of his upper lip barely conceals a hint of pleasure, as his voice resonates across the plane.

You have no angels. 

The Author

Woman. Floaty. Attached. Dettached. Sudden. Note-scribbler. Citizen of the world. Travelling to the moon and back.

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