Drive Safe

- Drive Safe. Okay?

- Fly Safe. Okay?

Too late. The response is swift and comes with a smirk. I deserve that, he thinks.

He kisses her grinning face and rolls his bag into the terminal.

“Drive safe. Okay?” – What was he thinking? Okay posed as a question is meant to make the reluctant conform – like a parent would admonish a child or a man establish his dominance. Why could he not have left it as a neutral “Drive safe” - nothing appended, nothing expected, nothing implied? Why did he have to say anything at all? Eitherway, she would drive as she usually does. How fucking stupid!

On the plane, he has a window seat. It has a headrest that can be adjusted to support the sides of his head if he falls asleep. The seat has an Elizabethan air, like it is the Queen herself – no, the first one – large and fleshy and with ruffles around her neck, over a dark royal gown. He shuffles in sideways, holding on to the seats ahead, then lets go and falls into her lap. It will be midnight by the time he gets home. But this is still better than taking the redeye. At least he will sleep in his own bed tonight. He pulls the airline magazine out of the pocket in front of him. The plane roars, pushes him against his seat, and keeps him there till it takes off.

- Diet Coke, please – he says when the steward looks asking, saying nothing. He goes back to the magazine. It’s like television, meant for short attention spans with single page articles alternating with full page advertisements. He flips all the way to the end.

“Drive safe. Okay?” – What the fuck? He will call and speak to her in the morning and explain. And apologize. She surely did see it the way he sees it now. Her response had been knowing and brutal. It’s only fair that she should know he knows.

The plane has begun to smell of sandwiches. They are being sold in the aisles. He is tempted but had eaten before flying. He puts the magazine back in the pocket and reads the plane’s safety booklet. There are six emergency exits. The closest one to him may be behind him. He resists turning back to look.

But does one have to say everything? Is one to be always honest? Doesn’t the tiresome description of every thought, every emotion make the relationship just that – so tiresome? Hasn’t he already had his fill of tedious, honest, bare-all, self-revealing relationships? And what would he say now? That he had not meant to say “Okay?”, but had anyway? That she should not read into it? That he thought her response was witty and that he was impressed? That he was – oh god – sorry?

The booklet goes back into the seat pocket, and his attention shifts outside to the flashing red light at the tip of the wing. Below in the darkness are the gold pinheads of a gridded city – linear streetlights and neatly clustered parking lot lights. The city continues endlessly. Phoenix? Maybe.

Will he really speak to her in the morning? He will. But will he say any of this? There are times that she says and does bothersome things and he waits for explanation – even mere discussion – but does not receive any. And it’s not always he who is emotionally inaccessible. So how equitable should this exchange of explanations, this uniformity of transparency? And who judges and says - Alright you two are now even. But he is really honest and he should probably talk. But shouldn’t this be one of those things that are better left to slip by than confront? It was after only a single fucking word!

His head is resting against the plastic pane of the window. The city has finally ended and it is all dark below. The wing continues to be illuminated by the flashing light. It is hypnotic he thinks and continues to look at it for a while before looking at his watch. Two more hours.

How much of honesty is mere arrogance? I will be honest because I can. I will be honest because I consider myself an honest person. My honesty is only for myself and I will subject everyone to it because they and I expect it of me.

He shakes his head twice, swiftly, and then rests it against the head rest. An air hostess is standing in the aisle and holds a gaping plastic bag in her hands and she asks, “Any trash, sir?