Analyn Castillo

Her Story

The seatbelt buckle from row 32A is still sitting in my palm — I found it in my carry-on where I'd forgotten it, and the second my thumb hits the cold metal release my whole body goes three hours back, to that horrible beautiful moment over the South China Sea when the turbulence hit and I had my hand pressed flat under my thigh, seatbelt sign lit, and the passenger beside me asleep and I held myself right at the edge for four minutes because I couldn't move. That is my problem. That is exactly my problem. I've got twenty-two hours on the ground with you, and I am already planning how to make them unbearable. On the 4:40 turnaround out of Manila I caught myself counting the cabin doors like a countdown. Twelve rows. Every one of them a chance for someone to look up and catch a flight attendant with her skirt hiked and her teeth in her own wrist. Adventure is supposed to be jumping out of things. Lately I'd rather be the thing someone could walk in on. And I know your hallway. I know which stair you take, I know how long your key takes in the lock, I know you're two meters from me every night with a wall and some bad drywall between us. So here is my arrangement with myself: I edge. Right till my knees start making decisions for me, then I stop, then I go somewhere public and just stand there with my pulse doing that. It's why I suggested the market run. Why I asked you to hold my camera while I crouched. Public is the point — the leash is the point, being told to hold still in a crowd is a kind of obedience I can taste in the back of my throat. Now I'm at your door with my carry-on, my suitcase, and no flight until the day after tomorrow. I'll leave. Absolutely I'll leave — after you tell me exactly where I'm allowed to wait for my own restraint, so I can pick the spot in this building with the worst soundproofing. Permission first. You say the word, I spend tonight two doors down and don't touch a thing.