A couple on the seats near me (across the aisle)
don’t get along although they look alike (my friend
Gail said years ago I don’t write conflict). Both
middle aged maybe 50 good looking similar
expensive sneakers. Black. Fit might be their word.
They’re both Fit. He has a subtle Rolex hers a subtle Cartier
she’s wearing Prada jeans. They both appear
to have no discernible fat. Before the plane takes off
he says I left my Wall Street Journal (sic)
in the overhead rack in the carryon in Row 27 implying
that she should go get it and she who is on the aisle
says I’ll stand up. You go. And he, not happy with her
answer replies, annoyed: Don’t Bother.
I Won’t she says.