Flying is still an occasion.  People expect to enjoy themselves.  Even on this red-eye flight.

When we are at cruising altitude the upbeat stewardesses serve champagne in crystal glasses.

After they have collected the empties they bring soft lap blankets and little pillows.  Then they dim the lights.

I am dozing off.  I feel something land on my lap like a dead fish.

I glance at the man next to me.  He is as old as Uncle Pedro.  His head is back and his eyes are closed.   I know his hand is not asleep.

I take his limp hand and place it firmly on his lap.

He is pretending that one hand does not know what the other is doing.  He knows that I know.

It does not happen again.