The Strong Hands in Seat 4-C

Last week I saw the race of man exposed in a casual gesture. It was like watching two maces tenderly wielded so you would forget what they're for. An athlete or a soldier, and I blushed at the way he used them to steel through the red hair of the woman beside him. Her eyes said clearly that she loved the suggestion of power they possessed. They were more than any of us, and I held them in a kind of bored contempt.

And, just like that, it was over. I felt it, even before the plane lurched into a dramatic pause, then into a future full of terrifying poetry. When the masks dropped from their holes like an toy accident, I couldn't help but laugh, because every part of this was together we were suddenly the same scared flesh with a common goal that would never be realized. And as I watched those strong hands in seat 4-C shake the air like dizzy maracas, the race of man changed inside me. Even now I am convinced they could have done more to save us.