Page 13 of Old Acquaintances

I stare out the window at the preparations made on the tarmac. A woman sits next to Tucker, and he slides closer to me, squished in the middle seat. In my ear, he asks, “Can we switch seats?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“You’ll have the same amount of room in this seat,” I point out.

His hand lands on my thigh. “I’m trying not to make the stranger on the other side of me uncomfortable.”

I brush his hand away and lean over his body. I ask the middle-aged woman beside Tucker, “I’m sorry, is this man bothering you?”

She shakes her head fervently, and he gives her a pacifying smile.

“See.” I clip my seat belt as the flight attendant walks past to make sure we are buckled in.

Tucker and I are glued together at the sides, his hand landing again on my leg. When I push him away again, he argues, “I don’t have room for my hands.”

“That’s not an excuse to grope me. If you would put the armrest down, you’d have a place for your King Kong hands.”

“Thisis not a grope.” He grips the sides of my leg above my kneecap and squeezes. My leg flies involuntarily into the seat in front of me.

He laughs, and I chide, “Grow up.”

Tucker relaxes into his seat. That mouth –that mouth– closes, lips settling with ease, and his round eyes casually view the last few passengers straggling in. A flight attendant smiles at him. That mouth returns a gut-wrenching smile in her direction.

How can he relax? He might as well be in a smoky bar, waiting for women to flock to him, watching a baseball game and shooting the shit with his friends. I’m just that girl sitting beside him.Again. The one he promised his mom he’d always be nice to.

How can he just pretend like we’re the same as we were – antagonistic, playful, touchy – and not feel strange about so much time apart?

We didn’t end things on a happy note. Just before my accident, we ended from our siblings’ wedding celebration with an uncomfortable hotel breakfast where I didn’t look at or talk to him, and he didn’t try to apologize or explain.

Tucker always explained.

He always apologized.

I never thought he would take that last encounter as a final ending to our…entanglement. Although we weren’t friends, we weresomething, and I wanted him in that hospital with me. I needed him.

I force myself to look out of the window.

“So. How’s dance?” he asks. His voice hits my right ear and prickles the skin. “Are you still in Atlanta?”

I inhale and exhale through my nose, wishing he could see smoke drifting from my nostrils and take that as a warning sign.

“Come on, Ell,” he says, low and soft.

He’s always physically closer to me than he should be. I forgot what it felt like to have his fingers on my skin and now his hand is touching my wrist. So familiar. Through the layers of hardened skin, my eleven-year-old self feels this touch, just likewhen he angrily dragged me around the Pine Place Barbeque Festival because our parents told him to keep an eye on me.

He continues, “At least talk to me. It’s going to be a long fucking plane ride if we sit in silence.”

Too bad for him, that’s what I plan on doing.

“Tell me about your life. What do you like about Atlanta?” He waits.

I intend to keep him waiting. Maybe for the end of all time.

“What kind of stuff do you do on your free time?” he questions. Then: “You still got that rash behind your knees? How’s your bunion journey? Can your bowels handle dairy again?”

“It’s not a rash!” I snarl. “It’s psoriasis. And I do not have bunions. And -”

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