The Writings of Mary Lewys

He closed his eyes. Swarthy cheek bones only noticeable with age shone in the hot sun streaming through the portal window. His black, thinning hair was combed in a professional manner. On his brown suit lapel, a small American flag glittered. No one would mistake him for a terrorist.

* * *

The black POW plastic wristband stood out against the elastic bandaged arm as he lifted it over the seat. The rock-n-roll, stylized skeleton on his tee shirt matched the scars on his face. He cooed to quiet the daughter who would ever know this face.

* * *

The heavy wool blazer helped to hide her breasts. With the rest of her clothes as androgynous as her hair, the lack of make-up helped with the disguise. Back home, she couldn’t lie with a woman. Old habits die hard.

* * *

She switched seats with her son before take-off to stop the fighting. Without batting an eye, she ignored her daughter’s pout by picking up the US magazine. As she stared ahead, she wondered what would happen if the plane crashed. She sighed and felt nothing.

* * *

As he took his seat designed for a woman and struggled into the too-small harness, the steward scratched his cheek. He wondered if this was the flight where he would use all his specialized self-defense training. He stared down the row in hope of searching out the one who smuggled on a make-shift shiv or nail clippers. Each set of eyes lacked murderous intent. Oh well, he thought, maybe when I pass out the cookies.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007