I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as though someone or some nameless thing has tuned into my desire frequency and causes interruptions to any intended plans for my solitude or personal enjoyment.
        One time I bought a computer magazine because it had state of the art articles I wanted to read on the flight between Chicago and Los Angeles. I placed my briefcase in the overhead compartment, sat in my aisle seat, fastened my seat belt and heard the young woman in the middle seat say to the young man peering out the window from his window seat. “I’ll ask him, I bet he’ll know what I’m talking about.”
        I knew what she meant and what was about to happen again because it has happened to me all of my life. I would not get to read my articles because this woman was going to talk all the way from Chicago to Los Angeles. I said, “Ask me what?”
        She turned her face toward me leaving the window seat companion still staring out the small window and her derisive expression vanished leaving her with a pleading countenance. “I was about three years old,” she began. “Well, one day I strolled slowly out the back door of our home, I looked at the grass, the fence that bordered our property, I looked back at the place called home and thought to myself, “I don’t belong here. There has been a mistake.”
        She stopped talking and the window companion shook his head in disbelief and smiled at me out of the corners of his eyes. He didn’t manage to look directly at me, but it was plain he didn’t believe the young woman’s words. I think he must have uttered something, like, “Oi!”
        I paid little attention to him but curious about the woman because she seemed sincere, she was very pretty, engaging I could say, and I had had similar thoughts.
        “Well,” she said, “do you know what I’m talking about?”
        “Yes, I do.”
        She turned back to the guy in the window seat. “See! I told you he would understand.” He continued shaking his head. He rolled his eyes toward the cabin’s ceiling. I think he chuckled in disbelief.
        “Well?” she asked.
        “Well?” I replied.
        “How is it you know what I’m talking about?”
        “I’ve had similar feelings,” I said. “Mostly at times when I couldn’t have something I wanted. I suppose one might say it was more like a sophisticated way of saying either give me what I want or I’m leaving home...”
        “No, that’s not it at all.”
        “Or,” I said, touching her arm in a manner meant to redeem my exhaulted status as one who ‘would understand.’”
        “What?” she asked waiting patiently.
        “There are those who believe in God’s infinite wisdom taking into account he’s given us free will, we choose our own environments to incarnate in and...”
        “That’s it! That’s it!” she said raising her voice. I thought that most of the passengers in the coach section heard her exclamations.
        “So if that’s true, some would call it a truism, then you can change things the way you want them.” I knew I was out on a limb with that statement and didn’t look forward to being challenged as to the method of change. I didn’t want to be asked, “...and for those who believe this, how does one change the situation?” She had already exclaimed she immensely disliked living on planet Earth.
        But she nodded her head and thanked me. I thought, Wow! It’s over. Now I can read my magazine. So I buried my head and pretended to be engrossed. I searched for the first article and indulged.
        I was aware that passengers were still boarding. Without looking at her, I heard the young lady say something akin to, “Well, free will or not, I’m going to take you with me. You will like other places I have in mind.” She sprayed herself with an impressive cologne. It was a cologne that women use to announce their arrival. The only way to say it, is, “It was heavenly.”
        She continued, “Besides, I like your beautiful brown eyes.” He chuckled. “And, I adore the way you smile.” He laughed nervously. “OK?”
        I never heard the young man’s response. I was jostled gently by and older woman standing next to my shoulder, in the cabin’s aisle. I looked up at her. We smiled at each other. “I would like to get through to my seat,” she said.
        I looked toward the window. The young woman and man weren’t sitting in their seats. In a flash I thought I had been reading with such intensity, they had stepped into the aisle and perhaps had gone up the stairwell to check out the lounge. The quickened pace of my heartbeat told me something different. I didn’t feel them pass me. We didn’t rub legs. They couldn’t have left without me knowing. These strange things are happening again and now.
        “Those seats are taken, madam,” I said. I must have worn the most puzzled expression because I, too, didn’t understand the unfolding event.
        “They can’t be taken,” she said. “These are my tickets, young man.”
        “What’s the matter, honey,” the man standing behind her asked.”Something wrong, Sylvia?”
        “He won’t get up to let us take our seats,” she said. She cleared her throat. She didn’t sound concerned. She continued to smile at me.
        In their eighties, I thought. They must be. But where are the young kids that were here minutes ago?
        I hadn’t made any attempt to stand, turn or move because I knew, and I don’t know how I knew, the strength of that truth, that knowing pervaded my being, that the two young people would be back, whatever going, returning and back meant.
        “What’s the problem here?” a lovely, very attractive flight attendant asked.
        “He won’t give us our seats...” the woman said. She slapped her boarding pass packet against her hand impatiently. “These are our seats,” she said and smiled at me. I had seen that smile before.
        “But?” I said.
        “These are their seats, sir,” the flight attendant said. “See here?”
        She showed me their boarding pass, and the seat designations matched the empty seats.
        “Well, it looks like you’re right,” I said, stood and moved out of their way.
        They bent over to keep from hitting their heads on the overhead compartment. He went in first, saying, “I always get the window seat.”
        I’m not certain if he spoke to me or the elderly woman.
        “I know,” she said and winked up at me as she settled into the middle seat. She winked again.
        Where have I met her, not him so much, but where have I met her before?”
        I remained upset, knew I was tired and decided to try and read. The captain’s voice began pre-flight welcomes and instructions and I didn’t hear him, but I heard the elderly woman ask, “Well, what did you think about that trip?”
        I think his answer was close to, “Unbelievable.”
        I didn’t look at them again. I kept on reading.

In Flight

    Thank you for the terrific read! Everything about it is perfect, and I thoroughly enjoyed the plot. My new novel is based on a similar premise, that is, reality is only experienced through our thoughts. However I prefer your implication that reality is instantly created by our thoughts. Like a good glass of wine, your story left a pleasant after taste.