illustration by Avi Katz
“The air is unexpectedly cool and damp for early September when I emerge from Terminal 3 and cross over to the AirTrain. I’m alone and there are no human sounds, only the roar of traffic on the highway. Even that is muted as the elevator door shuts.”
I look up from 60C on my Delta flight from JFK to TLV. A pudgy young guy in a white shirt and a beard is standing over me.
“I’ve got the window,” he says apologetically.
I snap my laptop shut and squiggle out of my aisle seat.
“Sorry,” he says. “You were writing something.”
“It’s ok,” I say as he squeezes past me with a hat box and a large plastic bag full of cookies. He places them on 60B.
“I saw at the desk that no one’s sitting here,” he explains. He points at the computer. “Work?”
“Yes,” I say. “A story. I have a column in a magazine and the deadline is coming up. I’m just trying to get it started before takeoff.”
“Well, don’t let me bother you. By the way, I’m Yehuda.”
“Haim,” I say. “Thanks. Actually, I’m not sure if I want to write it.”