Always, whenever I look at you

or, a short story

Every time I turned to look at the sky, I would see a plane flying towards the city. Of course, I knew it couldn't be the same plane, but that was how it felt. I would be walking along, listening intently to the music of Hans Zimmer, focusing on the precise manner in which each track was composed, the way some woodwind instrument—a duduk, most likely—repeated an exquisite phrase central to the piece, and when I turned my gaze to the horizon, there it was: the same plane, flying northeast, quite low and with its nose towards the city. There was nothing sinister about its flight path or altitude—the airport was in that direction, after all—but for there to always be a plane whenever I looked up seemed strange. If I tried deliberately—if I lowered my gaze to the pavement for just a few short moments and then turned to look up—there wouldn't be any trace of a plane. The sky would be its same crisp spring blue, without even a cloud in sight. But if I became distracted—watching, for instance, the morning commuters hauling their bodies into a tram or observing the long line of cars at a standstill before a red light—and only then, some minutes later, thought to look, sure enough it would be there: the same plane, on its same path.

As I watched one of these repeating planes glide through the sky, I wondered on the precise number of flights that took that path each weekday morning. I could check when I got to the office, I thought. I could sit down, analyse the data, attempt to calculate the probability of seeing a plane at any given moment. I could do so in a spreadsheet, spending long enjoyable moments working on the formulas, perfecting the look and aesthetic of each row and column, imagining that this was what my boss required of me. Often I find myself doing tasks that are wholly unrelated to my day job but that—despite taking up a considerable amount of time—give me great satisfaction; I had no doubt that the crafting of such a spreadsheet would elicit such a sensation.

In the process of thinking about this, I had of course become distracted. I stopped, not daring to look up, instead staring at the pavement, trying to attune to the atmosphere and wondering whether my ears were of a sufficient shape and size to discern a plane's engine from so far away. People bumped into me, irritated that I had stopped, cursing at my lack of thought. I ignored them and remained motionless. Then, after several moments, I dared to look. The plane was there, gliding through the sky. Of course it was. By then I had expected nothing less.

*

Some weeks later I found myself at the airport. I was travelling to the north of the country, a short business trip that would only last a day. It was a meeting that could have been done online but for which I had been asked to go in person. When I make business trips alone, I enjoy them immensely, even if for just a day. Knowing this, my boss is only too happy to send me off on whatever errand or task he requires. It is not always that this opportunity arises, but when it does, he knows I will accept without objection.

Despite the regularity of such trips, I have an irrational fear of missing flights and so arrive at the airport hours earlier than necessary. There is, I have realised, something relaxing about being within an airport and having checked in. I will sit there, enjoying a coffee in silence, watching the many different flights come and go. You are within the system now, I think to myself, knowing that I have passed through the necessary threshold of security. Like mist clearing from a valley at sunrise, the anxiety that has built within dissipates and a great relief floods into my body. It is almost euphoric.

During my first office job, I dated a girl who felt entirely differently: she had an irrational fear of the confines of airport terminals. To her, a terminal was a clinical, aseptic space that could not be enjoyed in any manner and the idea of being stranded in an airport due to a missed connection was, she said, her worst nightmare. For this reason, she would arrive at the very last minute, often on the brink of missing her flight. For her, the excitement this created was incomparable and she would book flights that departed during rush hour, or at 5 a.m., or any other time of day when the act of getting to the airport or waking up in time might be problematic, all so as to heighten the risk and increase the pleasure she felt upon boarding. She told me all of this the night we first slept together. Lying there in the dark of her bedroom, our bodies spent and curled under the sheets, she relayed these facts as though setting out a contract. I always leave getting to the airport until the very last minute, she said, her tone almost stern. As she spoke, she pressed her nose into mine, like I was an envelope to be stamped.

Of course, I explained to her how much I liked airports, especially once reaching the stage of being within the system. As these words left my mouth, I felt her nose detach. Our bodies had become separated. She rolled over and soon her breathing had attained the regular pattern of sleep.

The next day, I received a text message. We cannot advance any further, it said. Cannot advance any further? What a strange way to phrase it.

*

The morning that I was travelling to the north of the country on business, I was sitting in my favourite airport café, sipping an espresso, my phone resting on the cover of the novel I happened to be reading. I am reading a book, yet I also have my phone, this statement said. Sometimes, I move the phone away, leaving the statement just about the book, but in that moment the phone was there, resting on the cover. As I was admiring the deep black of the espresso, a woman took a seat on the table opposite. She was immaculately dressed in a trim black suit and white shirt, the collar unbuttoned and with her hair in a high ponytail. Also flying for business, I noted. I nodded a silent, internal approval. Around her neck she wore a delicate gold necklace, at the end of which hung a green gemstone. Jade or tourmaline, though I couldn’t say for certain. As I was about to move my phone and continue reading, she looked at me and smiled.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” I offered, adding a brief smile in return.

I thought perhaps she was going to say more, but she clasped her hands together on the table and proceeded to stare out of the window. This was fine by me. I had no desire to find myself in conversation and so finished my espresso and continued to read, sliding my phone away into my pocket. Yet, the words on the page seemed to hold little or no meaning. I would read a paragraph and realise I had no recollection of what it said, and so found myself backtracking to try again. After several attempts, I closed the book and sighed, glancing to the flight status on the screen fixed to the wall. 30 minutes until boarding. I decided that was close enough and so made to get up, but as I did my eyes alighted on the woman. She was still sat there, her body in the same posture with her hands clasped together.

“Hello,” she said. Her tone was as before, as though this was our first encounter.

“Hello,” I managed, uncertain of how my voice sounded. I offered another smile, then placed my book into my briefcase and started heading for the gate, not wanting to turn around in case she said hello in that same tone once more.

*

Seated on the plane, I was enjoying the luxury of having no one next to me. It was only a short, domestic flight, so there was no business class to speak of and each row was in a three-aisle-three configuration. I was on the port side of the plane, next to the aisle, which is my preferred way to fly. Although I enjoy the window seat, I find the risk of having to stand up and disturb the person next to me when I want to use the toilet too great. It ruins all enjoyment of the experience of flying. I was, therefore, greatly pleased at having the option of all three seats and guilt-free use of the window.

We were minutes from departure, but at the very last moment a woman boarded the plane. It was the lady from the café. For how late she was, she didn't seem in the least bit flustered. The air hostess, standing at the front and waiting for the signal to close the cabin door, all but ignored her. Making her way down the aisle, the woman from the café moved in a calm manner. I studied the pace of her gait, the confidence of her stride, the way her clothes seemed to mould to her form. I couldn't help but be mesmerised by her movement. There was nothing sensual about it, but I couldn’t help feel that she moved as though in some strange, symbiotic relationship with her clothing.

As she approached, her pace slowed. She eyed the window seat and I lost all hope of having the row to myself. This wasn't all that surprising. The flight was mostly full and, although I didn’t calculate the odds, the chance that she was destined for one of the empty seats next to me must have been pretty high. I unbuckled my seat belt and stood up, letting her pass through. The man to my right eyed me warily, then went back to whatever business he had with his phone. Sure enough, the woman settled into the seat by the window. As I sat back down, she turned to face me.

“Everything repeats,” she said.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, more out of reflex than anything else.

“Everything repeats,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. Then, without adding anything further, she clasped her hands on her lap and proceeded to stare out of the window.

Everything repeats, I mused, unsure of what she meant.

*

Part way through the flight I felt the urge to use the toilet. Satisfied that I could stand up without disturbing anyone, I went to relieve myself. When I returned, the woman was looking at me, and as I sat down she handed me a small diary. Its cover was green, like the gemstone at her neck.

“What is this?” I asked, knowing full well it was a small diary.

“It's a small diary,” she said, placing it on my lap.

“A small diary,” I affirmed, and after I said these words it seemed our conversation was settled. She made a small nod with her head, like a professional chess player signalling the start of a match, then turned to look back out of the window.

I tucked the diary into the side of my briefcase, not knowing what else to do with it. For some reason, this act left me overcome with a sudden fatigue and I couldn't help but rest my head back against the seat. I must have fallen asleep straight away, as I had no recollection of the rest of the journey. When I awoke, the plane was already on the tarmac and people were making their way down the aisle to disembark. I looked to my left. The woman wasn't there. The seat was empty, as though it had never been used. She must have stepped over me and departed as I lay there asleep.

*

The rest of the trip was uneventful. I was half expecting for the woman to be there on the plane on my return journey. Sometimes, this kind of thing happens to me on public transport. I will notice someone early in the day on the train to the office—perhaps due to their clothing or the manner in which they hold their body—and in the evening they will board the very same train on the very same carriage. Not a great coincidence, but notable when it occurs. But she wasn't on the plane. In fact, I never saw her again. By the time I got home, I'd forgotten all about her and it wasn’t until the next morning that I remembered the small diary tucked into the side of my briefcase. Sliding it out, I studied the cover. It was green and, in places, a little mottled, but otherwise nondescript, devoid even of any branding.

I opened it.

On the first page, written in pencil by a very neat hand, were two words. They were the same two words the woman had said, written over and over perhaps two dozen times: Everything repeats.

I cannot say what this diary means. I cannot say why the woman from the airport café handed me this diary, why she inscribed her words within it, whether it was even hers to give … but it is within this diary that I write these words, as a plane slides repeatedly through the sky.

Photo by Herman Aasly on Unsplash