Window Seat
As I gazed at the ocean below, the obese man sitting beside me heaved into a regulation sick bag. The nauseous hulk filled a thin beige suit with a white shirt open at the collar. His fair hair was lank and greasy, and his fringe had flopped forward over his eyes, so that with the bag held over his mouth his face was almost entirely obscured.
I looked on helplessly as he coughed and spat. It occurred to me to pull down the window shutter, and I did so quietly. Turning back, I was startled to find the fellow staring up. He was still hunched over, his wide back curved, immensely solid. Yet sitting there clutching his discreet white paper bag with a look of exhaustion and embarrassment, he looked more like an overgrown schoolboy to me: all flustered, pathetically protecting his stash of sweets from a gang of taunting louts.
“Thank you,” he uttered weakly, and for a moment I was struck by the image that we were indeed in a playground, I having just disengaged a confrontation over some confectionery treasure.
“Would you like some water?” I asked, looking down the aisle. He began to straighten his hair and wiped his mouth.
“Yes. Water would be good.”
I called the attention of a stewardess. She came over immediately, and then promptly disappeared, tightly holding the top of the sick bag between her thumb and forefinger, at arm’s length. My neighbour stuck out a fat hand with thick fingers.
“I’m Frederick,” he declared.
As polite as he was, I had little inclination to touch the man. But his log-like limb hung in the air and the engine rumbled onwards, so I reluctantly took his hand in mine and shook it. His palm was clammy.
