The thing is the moment, delighted in light and motion like something I would invent, my finger touching my lip, certain of something unsaid.
Miles above, tucked in this empty moving space, the stewardess, wild blown-back hair, chewing gum for cover, more than half in the bag. “There you go, honey.” There is a note and it is long, clear and not, the blackness, and I don’t know what that is or could be. The thing is the moment, this moment, wide, where we might be. And then it is gone.