The descent is rough. The plane drops hard enough that the woman beside me quits guarding the armrest and grabs it for a different reason. I don’t say anything. Neither does she. When the wheels finally find the runway, the cabin breaks into the loose, giddy noise. Outside the window there’s nothing but white coming down sideways.
The airport is small and overwhelmed, six diverted jets emptying into a single gate lounge. Every board flips to the same word, then a worse one: the blizzard shuts the runway behind us. The gate agent tells the long queue that it may take up to seven hours before we can take off again.
I claim a strip of carpet by an outlet and turn on my laptop. I answer three emails Jo should have answered. I push the studio back another day. The teenagers from the gate clock me once, take a blurry photo. Around hour four, I get up to go look for food.
As I approach the vending machine, I see she’s already parked in front of it.
“Hmm.” I read the rows. “Maybe B7.”
She shakes her head and doesn’t turn around. “For flights? It has to be C3. Pretzels. It’s easy to digest and at least they don’t try to take the roof of your mouth with them.”
“I didn’t think you’re a Pretzels type.”
“Pretzels are honest.” She looks back, one brow raised. “They don’t need to prove anything to anybody.”
“They’re bland.”
"Bland." She turns around now. "That's rich, coming from the girl who still owes me an apology."
"I oweyouone?"
I fold my arms and take a deep breath.
"I am sorry for breaking your mask. However, you also spilt a can of soda onto my pants!"
"It was also a little your fault.”
I stare at her.
“But okay, I am sorry for ruining your pants."
She holds my gaze a second too long. "Press C3," she says, quieter. "If you're going to stand this close, at least make yourself useful."
I press C3. The pretzels drop. She takes them without a thank you and walks away.
The plows win a little after midnight. They funnel us back through the same gate and onto the same aircraft, and the agent hands me a boarding pass with the same row printed on it. 14B.
She drops into 14A a second later and stares at the seat number.
“You have got to be kidding me.” she says.
“What did you expect?” I tell her. “It’s a full flight.”
We buckle in. This works until twelve minutes in, when the man in row 12 reclines his seat. The movement jostles both of us, and then the smell arrives.
It's unmistakable. It smells silent and deadly. Something that belongs nowhere near humans packed into a metal tube.
She presses her face into her sleeve. I press mine into the collar of my hoodie. Our eyes meet above our fabric shields.
“That’s assault,” she says into her jacket, voice low.
"Ew."
“They should remove that man from the flight.”
“And also from society.”
I snort, which I try not to do in public. The odor is still there and she’s smiling.