Robots Also Cry

[This essay is set to "af607105" by Charlotte Gainsbourg]
I flew to Seattle once, when my sister was still living there. It was a strangely planned trip. While I was flying out west, she was heading to my parents home in Maryland, where I lived at the time. I can’t remember why it worked out that way. All I remember is that I wanted to go to Seattle, then eventually make my way up to British Columbia to snowboard at Whistler/Blackcomb. I had an old magazine with pictures of the mountains there that I used to study. In it, the boughs of tall pines had been piled with powder that seemed unreal, as if it were made of meringue and styled with a spatula.

On the flight out I was seated next to a young woman, probably a few years older than me. I took in her appearance quickly then settled into whatever novel I had been reading at the time without saying a word; I found her pretty, and my attraction to her had made me feel bashful. She had pale skin and straight, long brown hair. Several minutes after take off she began crying, very quietly at first. I could not believe what was happening. I made a sort of abortive attempt to see what was going on without directly turning my head. But I could not clearly see her in my peripheral vision, she was seated too close to me. She held the window seat and had angled her body outwards, toward the sky. But I could hear her crying quite clearly, there was no mistaking that. It was a tranquil sort of cry I guess. There were no histrionics. No sobs. No gasping for air. It did not seem to be a cry born of grief or calamity or shock or disbelief. Thinking back on it now, it seemed to have been poured out of a still sadness that lived inside her, or at least that she had been living with for some time.

This was wholly unexpected. What was I, the awkwardly positioned bystander, supposed to do? Ask her what was wrong? And then—if she had confided in me—attempted to comfort her? My body was frozen with fear. I felt my face grow hot and my hands clammy with perspiration. I locked my gaze directly in front of me and studied the words on the page of my novel more intensely than before, as though the story was so compelling that I had become immune to any external stimulus. After some time she stopped crying. I had not realized it, but I had been holding my muscles taught from the stress. Finally, I let go, allowing my rigid body to relax and sag back into my seat. She seemed now to be settling into sleep, but my impression of her actions was bounded by my inability to turn in her direction. Everything she did seem removed from me, as though she were wrapped in a gauze that confounded by ability to discern her actions or emotional state.

I pretended to read my novel until I was somewhat certain that she had actually fallen asleep, though I could not concentrate on anything but her. I don’t remember the rest of the flight, but I am sure it passed uncomfortably for me, maybe in fitful attempts at sleep or distraction. But I could not bring myself to simply turn and look at the woman seated next to me. When we finally arrived in Seattle I quickly grabbed my bag and deplaned. After we entered the airport’s sterile terminal I casually slowed my gait to allow the woman to catch up. I managed to gather my courage, stealing a quick glance at her she passed by. She was beautiful. She had clear blue eyes and smiled when I looked at her, though not at me. I don’t think she even noticed me. Her eyes were unfocused, staring at something in the distance. She seemed to be smiling to herself.