Tuesday Morning

Two children in a weather-stained photograph; he showed it fifteen minutes after boarding, pulled it, rumpled, from his wallet. She touched it gently with reverent fingertips. She was not married. His five-year anniversary was in two days.

She could only swallow bile back, now. Glance to him—sweat made trails over his cheekbones. He was going to visit his sister. He was going to visit his sister in San Francisco. She had a business trip and a run in her stockings that she worried over this morning, but she'd had to rush for the flight.

Dark hair, dark eyes. His wife's name was Margaret. The kids were Rebecca and Joey.

Her nails dug in, but then the world lurched sideways, flipping. Someone was screaming, people were screaming. The seatbelt. Choking her. She fumbled, and it snapped off, and her knees hit the floor, cheek smashing to the seat in front of her. He grabbed her arm.

"No, just--" His eyes darted to the window. There were two spires on the skyline. They both knew what it meant.

Oh. Oh, but…

Her boyfriend was Mark and it'd been over a year and she loved him, but—

Someone was screaming. There was a wetness on her face, and he was sobbing between his teeth when he jerked off his seatbelt. Jammed between the seats with her, and the armrest grinding into his ribcage when his damp palm found hers. They fell back as the plane roared sideways, and she crashed into his chest, her face cradling between his neck and his collarbone.

He was a stranger. He was a stranger to her. His name was Mac; his skin was warm and her mascara left sticky trails down his throat. She shuddered against him. His fingers were tangled in her hair.

"Angela, Angela, we can--"

Someone's face slammed against the wall, someone behind her. A tooth skittered on the floor and blood grazed her hand.

"O-our Father… our… our Father w-who…"

"Hail Mary, full of…"

"S-stop, stop," she gasped. She didn't know who was praying. "Please stop, please… I can't--"

He clutched her shoulders, hard enough for bruising. Glancing to the outside as the plane dipped, her stomach plummeting, her heart, the emotion like sickness shooting down in her limbs. The spires, the spires filled the window. She was missing a shoe.

Mac was crying. Someone was screaming.

"It's alright. Angela, it's alright. Angela…"

Chest tight, she couldn't breathe. His stubble scraped her forehead, his lips crushed to her temple and she clenched her hands, she couldn't think. The spires. Someone was screaming, he was saying her name like it meant they could hope; she was shaking with tears and her throat raw with it, but this stranger—Mac was here, and his embrace was warm like—