Carry On

Ethan says it depends on how you look at it. Which side. What angle.

I wait for a nondescript flight attendant to pour us a measly glass of red wine (Joyce was right, drinking red wine is like drinking meat) and tell him it’s awful whichever angle you choose.

But Ethan is a righteous American. He is stubborn. I have to go through it again, convinced that I can crack him this time. I say, picture this. Your plane goes down in flames, everyone dies. It’s all over the news, and they all wake up in the morning and go ‘ah well’. And that’s it, Ethan, that’s it. They carry on. Two minutes later, three at best, it’s business as usual. They carry the fuck on. There’s an important phone call they have to make, another flight they have to catch, or some other bullshit.

Ethan does not look convinced. He asks for some more red wine and tells me that the world keeps going round. He actually makes it sound like it’s a good thing. Like it’s a fucking consolation prize. You want it to stop? he asks me (completely missing the point). Everyone’s on strike, supermarkets close, governments shut down?

I say I want some respect. Or rather - I shout. We both shout at this point, trying to outdo a five-year old girl demanding the toilet line to dissolve (which it does, reluctantly). I want some moment of reflection, I scream hysterically, not this damning indifference. 

Another nondescript flight attendant walks past us with an expression we had never seen before. Ethan drags me by the hand and whispers a curse or a prayer. But I say we’ll be fine. I say he imagined it. We are jetlagged and we are no longer sober. We’ll be okay. It’s just the red wine.