Tabula Rasa

The time itself was of no true relevance, just a rather intriguing coincidence due to the fact that one had left Tokyo a few hours prior, and the other was on its way to that very same place. Crossings at midnight. Departure and destination one and the same. Something of note. Serendipity? Or simply air traffic scheduling? One plane was mostly white, with specs of red at the tip of each wing. Slender and surprisingly delicate, its command of the air was impressive. The clouds parted softly, unconsciously even, as it sliced through their fluffed up edges. Warm butter. Maple syrup. Molten lava. In the dark skies, its sweet nocturnal lights twinkled at a regular beat alongside the stars. Man alongside mystery. I sat on this aircraft. Three empty bottles of wine, the miniature kind, were tucked away under my seatbelt. I yearned for another. My eyes glazed over a mindlessly chosen film. Spurred by the erratic combination of boredom and a restless mind I carelessly glance out of the window at those sweet nocturnal lights that lit up our wing. I was aware of time in its most singular and infinite sense. We are, at this very linear second, all of us onboard this vessel, in flight. At that exact moment, the aforementioned stroke of midnight, a similar set of flashing lights soared past in one blink at a speed that I could not determine. I pressed the bell. “Another. Quickly.” As I craned my neck to watch the exasperated steward disappear behind me, I prayed that my choices had been right. You sat on the other plane. Briefcase secured neatly under the seat in front of you, shirt crisply pressed - so much so that it barely winced under the claustrophobic weight of the seatbelt. It is worth noting there were no empty bottles hidden away underneath. As a matter of fact, you actively turned away the steward in a manner most polite when complimentary libations were offered. The film choice was of severe importance - something serious, something with gravitas, not necessarily Oscar nominated but along those lines. You paid attention, your eyes did not glaze over in an erratic combination of boredom and restlessness. You seemed kind. The cart rattled past. “Thank you so much, not for me. Thank you so much.” The landings occurred at roughly the same time, taking into account the differing time zones. Passport control for us both was standard, full of scrutiny and critical eyes. We both headed for our respective taxi ranks, but a gentle pressure in your bladder took you on a detour to the nearest washroom. You were aware of a soft ticking sound coming from the corner of the room. Your briefcase hit the floor with a neat thud as the first explosion bore itself into existence. In my taxi, I refreshed the news manically. They were calling it the worst terrorist attack in years. I had a sudden feeling that my prayer would not be heard.