29A

Icould hear her crying down the phone. I sat in seat number 29A, next to the window, my knees against the seat in front of me. Outside the window, it was raining and dark. The shell of the plane was about a foot thick, maybe more, maybe less. I had jammed my guitar into the overhead locker and shut it. I was the first one on. Marching on like I owned the plane, tired of the journey before we even left the ground. Desperate to get the guitar tucked away before I was spotted, denied, and had it imprisoned in the hold. Hurled in by rough careless men. Kicked by the other suitcases. Bitten by the golf bags and pushchairs.

She had tried to come see me off. From another flight. Flickering through the corridors and gates in massive LAX, coming to say goodbye, see you soon. We had spent months in each other’s pockets. Living on top of and all over each other. Spewing our personal demons and angels into each other’s mouths. Arguing, crying, laughing, teasing, loving, exhilarated with our triumphs and dashed on the rocks of our shortcomings. Only hours ago, the taste of a last big shipwreck still in my mouth.

She felt she had failed, only wanted to say another last goodbye. It was going to be a week but felt like forever, and didn’t want to end on this sour note. I looked up the aisle, half rising in my seat, remembering security, remembered the protocol, and saw the passengers pouring into the plane like barbarian hordes, my victorious boarding suddenly hollow.

She felt she should have left earlier, come to say goodbye sooner. I felt like she was a hero. My hero. The gesture alone was so pure. Gilded as it was with failure that somehow served to make it all the more triumphant.