Flights

PLANE OF PROFLIGATES

Reddened northern faces surprised by sudden sun. Faded by salt water, and that hair after several hours daily at the beach. Bags filled with dirty, sweated-in clothes. In their carry-ons last-minute purchases from the airport: souvenirs for loved ones, bottles of strong alcohol from the duty-free shop. Just men; they occupy the same part of the plane now in a sort of tacit pact. They settle into their seats, buckle their seatbelts – they will sleep. They will make up for those nights without sleep. Their skin still gives off a smell of alcohol, their bodies have not yet managed to fully digest that two-week dosage – after several hours in the air this smell will have saturated the whole plane. In addition to a stench of sweat mixed with remnants of arousal. A good criminologist would uncover more evidence – a single long dark hair snagged on the button of a shirt; trace amounts of organic matter under index and middle fingernails – human, someone else’s DNA; in the cotton fibres of their underwear, microscopic skin flakes; in navels, microquantities of sperm.

Before take-off they get in a word or two with neighbours to their left and right. Reservedly they express their satisfaction with their recent stay – it wouldn’t do to say more, and in any case, it’s understood. Just a few, those most incorrigible, ask last questions about the prices and the range of services, and then – content – they doze off. It all turned out to be so cheap.