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Show -154 shaped like a bowler's trophy; it held Adam's ashes. Next to me Morgan clutched a dozen red carnations to throw out after. Commercial flying in the great aluminum jets is a cool calm insulated enterprise. In those plush seats that hug you so tight nobody worries that the sole force holding in the air three hundred tons of shapely alloy is one long-dead Italian's educated guess about differential air pressures, The world inside the plane is always more real than the world out; the windows are shaped like TV screens. But in our flimsy fabric-and-tubing lightplane, pulled along behind a single buzzing screw, the fact of flight was more personal. Immediate. Less than an arm's length away air flowed over the top of our painted wing measurably faster than along its lower surface, hence we stayed up. Balanced on a natural law, riding an equation, we bobbed and bounced on flawed air above a desert of black rock speckled with late snow. "You're exaggerating," Morgan said. "You didn't really want to let go and fall." She looked healthy, a nature-girl; her firm breasts were grateful for the sunlight falling on them; the nipples were the exact color of the interior of certain seashells, more delicate and elegant than coral. I ran my hand down her belly until my fingers, straining against the elastic suit, came upon a nest of soft curls; she smiled and closed her eyes. "Yes I did," I said. "It's hard to explain-despair |
