I let my arm press against hers in the way people who are comfortable can. Outside the window it was dark and there were cars and orange roads. I craned my neck like a child.
The plane leaned downward.
“Did you see Brisbane as we were flying in?” I asked.
She looked up from her book.
“No,” she said.
The girl had spent some time with me in the spring. Her apartment smelled like hardwood and linen. She would sit with her legs pulled up or lean into me and let her hair fall like curtains.
“I just want to read this book,” she said.
I turned toward the window and turned off my overhead light.
We were on the kind of trip students like us took to become better people. We went through customs and paid cab drivers. We learned small differences: the colors at intersections, the labelson cigarettes. The people there didn’t bark their words as if each had its own significance separate from the ones that surrounded it.
Dylan Nice is from central Pennsylvania—this is his favorite things to tell people. His work has appeared in NOON, Unsaid, Quick Fiction, and Gigantic. He now lives in Iowa.
(continue reading “We’ll Both Feel Better” in DEWCLAW Issue 2)