Flying over france

What an atmospheric view! Clouds dotted below, like a silken-see-through-polka-dot-veil, pin pricks of light below.

England on my left, France on my right. An eery glow from the half-new moon sets the mood for the slow thoroughfare below and our speedy travel above.

Over France right now. The patterns of light below seem the same as on the stinky island, up here even brits and frogs are alike. (Lest they be told). On the British side, the lights by the channel are condensed and crowded, as if they were all fans pressed against a great fence, the stronger ones at the front holding back the poorer and weaker ones.

How uncomfortable being so poor or so late. All you can see are the shoulders and heads of those in front but not actually seeing. Like religious fools too late for the initial offerings.

France is light-less now, even the lights have gone to sleep at this early hour. 9PM, was it always early? Or is mankind and womankind setting their collective clocks later and later fuelled by the excitement and challenges laid out before us on a daily basis.

Passing

Her hand bumps into mine and mine into hers. We're passer-byes but the present allowed more time than usual. Strange things happen when it's meant to be. Her rich, brown hair spins out like a top as she turns around to see what her touch has alerted to. At first her eyes are scornful, lit by a fire of vigilante justice, she's out with the mob and the mob is hungry for blood.

Shielding eyebrows recede as reluctantly as they protected those eyes. She's looking straight at me, first with that hellfire, then with a look reserved for those chapters describing first contact, first sight.

"I'm sorry" she flirts. I know she's not sorry, but then again, I don't even know her.

The mob takes over and soon she fades ino the mess of colours and sounds. Inside I kick the dog, smash my guitar and curse the day I was made so helpless in the face of such opportunity.