She realizes she's still on the plane.
She surveys her surroundings with eyes half open.
The plastic bag that housed her navy blue airline blanket is crumpled up and hanging limply out of the magazine pocket.
She makes out the small faces of the people depicted on the emergency card.
It's dim.
It feels like a dinner party.
She shifts in her chair and tries to stretch her limbs without grazing the oversized bicep of the boy sitting next to her.
His head is hanging back.
His mouth is wide open and he snorts and snores momentarily.
His headphones seem unnecessarily large.
She yawns and suddenly her ears pop.
The low engine hum suddenly becomes a roar.
She closes her eyes again and makes sure her glasses are still dangling from her shirt where she had left them.
She clasps her hands together on her lap, underneath the navy blanket that clings to her with mass amounts of static electricity.
She hangs her head to the right.
A man asks her if she would like something to drink while tapping her lightly on the shoulder.
She hesitates and then asks for water.
The boy next to her, waking suddenly, asks for a rum and coke.
She takes one sip, sets her cup down on the perfectly square napkin atop the perfectly grey passenger tray and hangs her head to the left.
She closes her eyes again.
She feels turbulence.
Her thoughts graze upon the fact that she's one of many people, sitting in a tin can with wings.
She wonders how much force would be needed to puncture the plane walls.
She decides, "not much force at all."
She tries to look out the window only to find that the old man sitting next to it has closed the shutter.
The old man has his blanket wrapped around him, up to his neck.
He has a neck pillow.
He looks like a worm.
He looks like a scholarly worm from a cartoon show.
He also resembles Larry David.
It's the middle of the night and she surrenders to the realization that this night will be a night of half-sleep and discomfort.
The rest of the passengers are unmoving.
They are faceless.
They are breathing heavy and resting.
She inhales slowly.
Airplane air always makes her nose dry.
She turns the air blower off.
She sets her shawl on her lap underneath her blanket.
She pushes her seat back as far as it will go.
The roar of the engine now sounds like far off waves.
Just like the waves she saw the day before.
She wakes up.
She's in Cleveland.
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