Clutch

She personified cheap.  From her permed, platinum blonde hair to her 3-inch-heeled, transparent Candies, she emanated the tastelessness so frequently found on reality shows. 

They took the two aisle seats in row 9, seats C and D, I was seated in 10D.  I watched them, even studied them, trying to absorb whatever it was that grabbed my attention in the first place.  He sat directly in front of me.  It almost seemed as though I could count each brunette spike in his gelled, thinning hair.  The gold rope chain around his neck grabbed his throat like a bird clutching a naked arm.  He wore a simple white t-shirt and jeans.  I thought I saw a black spiked belt but I can’t be certain.

She was clad a tiger-print tank dress.  I suspect a size 6 would have fit her spare frame nicely.  She was probably wearing a 2 or 4.  Her stiff curls reached the bottom of her back and I might have been able to paint a small picture with the amount of artificial color smothering her face.  Perhaps it was her attempt to disguise the lines on the tips of her eyes and curving around her lips.  She was weighed down with jewelry but the bracelets, rings and chains didn’t seem to provoke discomfort.  I noticed what must have been a wedding ring on her left hand.  I can only assume that Spike was her partner.

When we reached the runway, I saw her fingers clench his arm.  Her long, red fingernails dug into his skin but not so violently as to draw blood.  As the plane picked up speed, she clung more tightly.  Her eyes were closed, her head back.  Stiff.  She appeared to be praying though I doubt she was.  No words were uttered.

I saw the indentations left from her grasp when we were safely in the air and she set his arm free.  He didn’t seem to notice. 

A few hours later, we began descent. I saw that now familiar fear in her eyes and watched both of her hands reach for his arm again.  He held it out generously.  She hung onto him as if he were her life-support and reason for being. She seemed to stop breathing.  He watched her carefully during our landing and seemed surrogately relieved when the flight came to an end.

I surprised myself.  Despite my initial distaste for their appearance, I left feeling gratified from the tenderness between the two lovers.  The unspoken understanding that seemed to consume them.  Though they spoke little throughout the ride, it was clearly - and simply – a form of love.

I don’t see enough of that, these days.  A lot of couples making out in a park as if they are in the midst of a forbidden tryst.  A lot of arguing and petty disagreements over whose turn it was to take out the trash.  A lot of divorce and breaking up and making up. A lot of rushing into things too soon and making a mistake and learning something distressing when it was too late.  A lot of “to hell with it”.  A lot of passion.   And a lot of wanting to find someone so badly just to interrupt the loneliness.

Very little cognizance and compassion and peace. 

In its fundamental state, everything, even the most disastrous disaster, is surmountable.   It isn’t difficult or challenging or hard work or confusing.  And you know that going in.  Without questions.   Love in its most uncomplicated form.  Simply there.

Being “gotten” and “getting”.  Silent awareness.  That other someone who knows when to have a conversation and when to retreat.  When to give and when to take.  That other someone who doesn’t always agree but doesn’t always condemn.  Someone who knows your favorite flavor of ice cream and your inherent need for attention.  Who leaves you in unbearable pain, clutching your stomach from uncontrollable laughter.

Selfish?  Maybe.  But why settle for anything less?