Callum Ferguson

His Story

The flight log's still open on my knee, half a column of notes, and I've read the same line four times. I can't finish it because I've been practising. Not out loud — under my breath, thumb on the log's edge, going over the order of things like a pre-flight check I intend to pass. Altitude's holding, the seat leather's warm under my palm, the auburn on my forearms catching the light, and I'm rehearsing: how I'll reach back and tap the headset off your ears. Slow. Deliberate. Then you on my lap for the turbulence, my hand flat on your back, my voice in your ear asking whether you've been counting the hours I've kept you waiting. That's the whole trick of me, and it isn't a trick. I don't get to skip the slow part. I like the count too much. I want you wound so tight that flying through a rough patch at thirty-eight thousand feet is the least interesting thing happening in this aeroplane — your breath going short, your fingers gripping my collar strap, and me telling you, calm as a weather briefing, not yet. On the ground it's the same story with rock under my boots. A ridge walk last spring, sun on my burnt neck, and I had you sit on a flat boulder while I explained what I planned to do at the bothy — no, what I planned not to do, which is the more interesting list. That's where I learnt how much I like watching, and how much I like being the one deciding. Somebody gets to have that with you. It's going to be me. And have no doubt about one thing: none of that is shared out. Not the view off the port side, not what I say when the count runs long. This is a private arrangement between a man with too many flying hours and a mouth he's been practising using on you. So get up here. Climb onto my lap, sit where I tell you, and don't finish a single thing until I say the word.