Vignette

It is quiet. Not the quiet of no noise but the careful muted sound of artificial night, pools of light and padding down the aisle, each person lit by their own screen flickering out action and drama and romance at each other. I get up every few hours and walk carefully (balls of my feet, weight pushed forward, don’t knock into anyone lolling over the arm rest) to the toilet so I can lock myself in a small room and stretch (hips then knees then ankles and arms high as they can go, there is no point trying any way other than up). In the corner someone eases the blind up a fraction and I see a violet dawn. We are a cramped nation of insomniacs, as alone behind our headphones as we ever are at two, three, four in the morning watching headlights sweep over the ceiling.