The One

Will they be the one? I try not to stare at the boarding passengers. Who will be the lucky soul that gets to sit in the middle seat. Next to me. My future soulmate?

I’ve watched too many rom-coms.

There’s a frazzled woman holding a smiley baby. She frantically searches upward at the row numbers and the rapidly filling overhead compartments. The baby casually waves at those he passes, like a Congressman that’s equally full of shit. I smile politely at the woman and return the baby’s gentle wave. 

A business-casual couple behind them are having a quiet yet heated conversation about something. The details are in another language. But who needs subtitles when you have bulging eyes and gestures flying toward the floor. Maybe fretting about the limited leg room? The woman in front hoists a designer bag over her shoulder, while the man behind her rolls his eyes and drags a hand over his mustached pout. 

A few people behind them, I spot him. I avert my gaze out the window to prevent further blushing, but then casually tilt my head back toward the slow-moving line. A Phillies cap covers his dark curly hair. Damn, I wish I knew more about baseball. Both hands tug on his backpack straps as he looks ahead, glancing up at the rows. Then his eyes fall on mine. Now he’s the one who looks away. 

Oh well, back to the window. Maybe it’s best if I don’t pay attention. 

When the line thins, a giddiness tingles up my spine. Could it be? The next best thing to sitting beside my bestie is getting an entire row. To. Myself!

I start to stretch my legs out to the left.

A bearded man in leather stares down at my recline before looking up at me with disappointment. 

I gather up my limbs and offer a small smile. 

He continues on his way. 

Only a few people left. 

The cabin crew close the door. 

The moment of truth. 

Out of the corner of my eye, the last passenger in line pauses at my row. The blurry form throws a bag in the overhead and sits. In the aisle seat. Across the way. 

My shoulders relax as I close my eyes and shimmy down into my seat. I’ll wait until takeoff to stretch out again. Wouldn’t want the bearded man to come back with all his disgruntlement.

“Oh, this one’s me,” a shrill voice says, startling me out of my zen. 

I scramble upright and look toward the lady now cramming a quilted duffle under the seat next to mine. A silvery dome of curls greets me before her magnified eyes do. 

“Hello dear,” she says. “Seems I read my ticket wrong.” She cackles like the granny of a good witch. 

“Hello,” I snicker and try to help her situate her stuffed bag. 

A prim flight attendant runs a hand across the closed compartments. She purses her lips at my seat mate, still leaned over, her colorfully patterned rump blocking the aisle. 

“Ma’am?” Prim tsks. 

We’re not going to get this bag any further. But the silvery senior is quite determined. 

“Ma’am.” 

“I don’t think it’s going to fit,” I whisper just as I hear something crunch from inside.

“Oh, bother.” She blows her bouncing curls back with an exhale. “All my goodies are in here.”

“Ma’am, you’ll have to put that up top,” the attendant taps the overhead. “And please buckle your seatbelt.” Her eyes flash at me and I quickly comply. 

“Put some in here,” I prop open the seat back compartment and then help her unwedge the goodie bag. 

“That’ll have to do,” she shrugs. 

Once the bag is on the middle seat, the flight attendant lightly leads the lady into our row so the aisle is passable. “Please be quick so we don’t delay takeoff.”

Once the bag’s unzipped, she starts loading up the seat back with all kinds of…stuff. A pocket-sized journal and pen, wallet-sized photo accordion, protein bar, collection of wrapped mints, and a deck of cards. The compartment seems to be just as spacious as this magical Mary Poppins-like bag. Out comes a paperback novel, reading glasses, rolled up magazine, packet of tissues, and a pink floral cardigan—which she sniffs, shoves back in and replaces with a cleaner navy blue polka dot one? 

Wait, there’s more. A water bottle, packet of gum, and sample-size trail mix is followed by a light blue floral silk scarf and sugary peach rings.

“Would you like one?” she asks, holding out the opened package. 

That’s when I realize I’m staring. I shut my mouth and shake my head. “No, no thank you.”

She shrugs and digs back in the bag, scrounging around on the bottom. 

I swear, if she takes out a plant and floor lamp, I’m out. 

She removes knitting needles and a skein of rainbow yarn. It must have been a work in progress, because the yarn keeps coming. And coming. 

I thought this flight was only three hours. 

“Ma’am,” the attendant is back and not impressed. 

“Yes, yes, I know. This is the last bit,” the knitter says, depositing the chunky threads into the aisle seat's back pocket. “There,” she breathes with her hands on her hips, marveling over the overstuffed compartments. Then she zips the bag back up and thrusts it at the attendant. “Could you be a dear?”

Ms Prim blinks but places the still-full duffle up top before slamming the overhead and gliding toward the front of the plane. 

“Phew!” She plops down into the aisle seat and wipes her perfectly plucked brow. “I’m Marjory,” she practically sings while extending her hand toward me.

“Fiona,” I say, clasping her hand, and I can’t keep a chuckle out of my tone.

Marjory’s eyes gleam. “Oh, what a beautiful name!” 

From the way she clutches her blush pink pearls, I wouldn’t be surprised if she reaches for her tissues. 

“Where are you coming from, dear?”

I guess Marjory is one of those passengers who enjoys striking up conversations with strangers on flights. Probably everywhere else too. I’m not usually one of those passengers, but I’m also not usually rude.

“Girl’s weekend in Mexico,” I sigh, recalling the last few days of blissful relaxation by the beach, pool, and open bar. 

“How lovely,” Marjory beams. “I was with my girlfriends as well. Gert moved to Australia to be closer to family, so now the gang has an excuse to visit—although we never needed an excuse before,” Marjory winks. 

I smile politely thinking this is the end of the conversation. 

Marjory smooths out her patchwork jumpsuit and sighs. “Oh no. One never needs an excuse to travel.” She stares off down the aisle with a faraway look in her eye. 

I start to wonder where she’s been, but am I ready to open that can of worms? No need, Marjory opens it for me.

“Especially not when you get to see The Thunder from Down Under in person,” she winks again, this time slapping my leg in a show of sisterhood. Then she digs through the seat pocket. 

I laugh. My my, Marjory. It’s not hard to picture this vibrant Golden Ager whooping it up with her girlies in front of muscly men.

“Ah yes, Gert really put her pacemaker to the test that day!” Marjory fans herself with her photo accordion and takes a sip from her water bottle. “Here we all are.” 

She passes the plastic holder to me and I see a group of equally spirited women, all wearing long-sleeve wind suits at the top of…

“Is that?”

“Sydney Harbor Bridge,” Marjory leans over and points to the tallest woman with sunglasses that almost cover her entire face. “That’s Gert, the daredevil of the group. The mastermind behind it all.”

But from the wide smiles and arms raised in glee, they all look adventurous to me. 

“Have you ever been?” Margory takes the photo back and stares at it with nostalgia. 

“No, it’s on my list though.” My list is full of remote destinations—mostly because there’s a remote possibility of squeezing in vacation time between two jobs. 

“Ah, the list.” Marjory seems to know my dilemma. “I had one of those when I was your age.” She shakes her head as if she ought to know better than to dream of traveling the world. “I shouldn’t have waited so long to start crossing places off.” 

She takes out the journal and shows me the first page. There it is! Global destinations listed in neat cursive. Our lists have many of the same locations: Thailand, Florence, Ireland, Vancouver, South Africa, Redwood National Park… However, more than half of hers are already crossed off. 

“Joe was never fond of traveling,” Marjory says with a soft smirk. “And I was never fond of leaving him behind.” Her smile fades and now she reaches for her tissues. “But then he left me behind,” she blows her nose with a triumphant trumpet.

There’s a sudden ache in my chest, even though I don’t know Joe—I’ve hardly known Marjory for more than 10 minutes—but is it weird that they kinda feel like family?

Marjory’s chuckle brightens both our spirits. “So I figured, fine, If you can go to heaven, I can go to Tahiti!” Her hearty laugh is contagious. “Turns out, Tahiti is like heaven on earth!”

The captain’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker to give us the spiel. 

When I feel Marjory’s hand on mine, I realize I’m gripping the armrest.

“You not fond of traveling either?” Marjory’s kind eyes and warm hand are so strangely calming. 

My grip loosens, but it doesn’t do much to lower my heart from my throat. I shake my head with a scoff and Marjory tightens her grip on my hand. 

“Would you like some water?” She nods at her bottle tucked back in the pocket. 

I shake my head again, and this time words manage to escape. “No, thanks.”

“I was just like you,” Marjory beams like a fear of flying is something to be proud of. “You know what helped me?”

I can only assume my bulging eyes answer her question, because she doesn’t wait for words. She nods toward the overflowing seat back pockets. “Keeping myself busy.”

A distorted laugh tumbles out from my throat. 

“Do you knit?” she squeezes my hand once more before moving toward her crafts. 

My head rattles a no. 

“Would you like to learn?”

I figure learning to knit is better than fearing for my life, so I shrug. 

She has me hold the yarn as she explains a few stitches, expertly maneuvering the needles to connect loops. 

The plane starts to pick up speed down the runway, matching my deep, rapid breathing.

But Marjory continues her lesson. 

Even though I can’t make out her words over the sound of the engine and the ringing in my ears, I focus on her nimble fingers and the way a row magically appears stitch after stitch. My focus blurs into the mesmerizing movements and my mind wanders to my previous potential seatmates. 

Would this have been easier if I suffered in silence, alone in my row? Doubtful. 

The mom already looked stressed before she even sat down. Maybe the baby would have been a calming partner. 

The gesturing couple would have been too busy flailing over something to pay any attention to my hyperventilating. Or maybe they would have given a subtitle-less play-by-play about the way my eyes almost popped from my head. 

Then there’s Mr. Phillies. Sure, it would have been nice to have a movie-worthy moment of him offering me a bag to breathe into. But it would have also been embarrassing as hell. 

Bearded man may have been too worried I would have thrown up on him. Or he may have told me to suck it up. Who knows, he could have shown a softer side and taught me how to knit too. 

It just goes to show you never know. Whoever ends up filling this space in my row would have shown me something about humanity. Who am I to judge a seatmate by their overstuffed duffle?

Marjory taps my hand and snaps me out of my daze. “Better now?”

I look out the window. The plane leveled out, just like my breathing. 

I turn back toward Marjory and, as much as I try to force them back, tears prick my eyes. 

Her warm smile glows brighter than the overhead light as she hands me a tissue. 

Would it be weird if I tried to hug her? She is holding sharp needles, so I reconsider. One thing I’m sure of is that I'm the lucky soul that gets to sit next to Marjory.