|
|||||
taxis, despite the flight attendant's objections. A concerned mother squeezes her boy's hand and yanks him urgently down the aisle as he stares at the dead man. The rest of the passengers shuffle off with hesitant backwards glances. I am the last one to de-plane, considering the effort it takes for me to get out. Once in the aisle, I pull the overhead open and carefully pull my backpack down. I think for a moment what I should say to the old man in parting, the man who woke up after death to tell me to get some sleep. At first "see you later" springs to my lips, but those words seem hollow and mean, as if what I really meant to say is "see you never." I don't even know his name. Then I notice that his fat palm, rolled awkwardly into the crook of his legs, still clenches the bag claim ticket. The flight attendant is busy talking to the captain and so in one quick move I snatch the ticket away and walk out of the airplane. Just 
|
outside, I claim his bag-the enormous plaid one-and proceed on my way. It's awfully heavy. A recent graduate from Hiram College, Myles Wallace is a writer, web designer, and ballroom dancer. This is his second published work. 
|
||||
