Airplane

The airplane seat, as it always is, is WAY too small, even for a 5’6” skinny woman. She sighs, a quiet admission of her discomfort to herself. The air in this airplane is far too dusty, and the view of the tarmac is rather sad. All grey concrete and countless planes. She bets if she really looked, she could find a prison plane. This is an international airport. The woman goes through the motions- she tucks away her suitcase in front of her feet (but pulls out a book, a loved copy of Eleanor and Park and tucks it into the seat pocket in front of her), ensures her seat is up, and her seatbelt firmly fastened around her hips. She prays that the seat beside her will remain empty.

Then he runs down the aisle. Apologies to the attendants spilling out of his mouth like water out of a fountain, he tucks a suitcase into the overhead compartment and slips into the seat.

He is easy on the eyes. Not necessarily handsome, but a very kind face, with loving brown eyes, and a slightly disheveled coiffure on his head. He catches her gaze (he’s gazing the very same way at her).

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

He too, tucks a laptop sleeve, the kind with handles so it’s a pseudo-suitcase, underneath the seat in front of him. He too, is wearing business-casual. (A white cotton button-up with a creamy knit sweater; not that she noticed though). She pushes her glasses up on her face, and peers at him. He peers back. His skin is the colour of pale honey comb.

The plane, though continuously cramped, sort of fades into the background. The flight attendant’s voice is nasally and she talks through the PA, informing everybody of their imminent departure, and to please take out all headphones as they’re about to go through the safety demonstration. All that jazz, y’know. He sits, and fidgets with his hands. She sits, and fidgets with the edge of her blazer.

“I’ve heard this talk at least a thousand times, but I know damn well that I’d never ever make it off a plane in an actual emergency,” she’s the first to speak.

He laughs. And he has a wonderful laugh.

His mind reaches for something to say in response, something that could convince this lovely woman of his so-called wit and talent and silver-tongue, but his mind kinda goes blank. She’s really very pretty. Grey eyes that dance with mischief, blondish brown hair that’s cut like a man’s, her unnaturally straight teeth.

Why, if he didn’t know better, he’d say he’s smitten! (He’s smitten alright).

Then he realizes he’s taken way too long to say something back.

“Uh, uh, I mean, I’d rather be dead above New York than dead above Mississippi, at least.”

Nice going, he thinks, that doesn’t even have anything to do with what she said. But she laughs anyway.

“So what’re you gonna do in New York?” Anything to distract her from his verbal diarrhea.

“Oh I’m just there for a few days. I’m trying to pitch, and this almost feels like a long shot, but I’m trying to pitch a screenplay to Broadway. Get some funding, find some more musicians to work with me on this, y’know? Shoot big! If I get rejected I’ll come home to pitch to Ed Mirvish.”

His eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

“So am I! But I mean, well, actually, uh, I was here in Toronto pitching to Ed Mirvish for a deal. I live in New York, I thought Ed Mirvish would be a nice place to start.”

“Any luck?”

“Nah. But I mean, maybe Broadway will give me a shot! I’m pitching to them next.”

They laugh at their predicament. The plane steers its way onto the final runway. The pair continues to chat about their respective musicals, as they climb into the sky.

“But you look young! Are you just writing, or are you in uni too? Part of me regrets not going to NYU or something before diving into musicals.”

“Yeah, I’m in my fourth year of undergrad at U of T! I’m going to med school next, if the whole playwright thing doesn’t pan out I’m planning on being a neurologist.”

That’s it. She’s a genius.

“I wrote a musical for the U of T stage. And a few plays for underground theatres in Toronto. I got told that maybe I could shoot bigger, so I’m doing this, y’know? I’m lucky that all the musicians I worked with were still down to help me with this- I can write lyrics, and I play a few instruments, but I’d be hopeless without my team composing with me.”

“If we looked more alike I’d say you were my twin sister, Jesus f****n’ Christ.”

“I’d kill to have your skin. I’m guessing you’re Spanish? Like, by descent I mean.”

“Puerto Rican! But my name’s Matthew. Matthew Gardener.”

“Augusta Simon. Most people just call me Aug.”

Over watery coffee (“It’s not that bad.” “You bleed poor-taste Canadian”) and sky peanuts, they decided to meet in New York.

----------------------------------

Names in lights. Broadway theatre.

“Before we begin, please welcome New York’s very own Matthew Gardener, and Toronto’s Aug Simon, the creators of tonight’s show, for a brief intro!”