Musings from a Ryanair flight
I love love. More love seems to be the answer to so many of our modern-day problems. More love for the planet. More love for each other. I think that the misbehaviour of most troublemakers in the world, from dictators to dipshits, is in its essence motivated by wanting – and failing – to be loved. So imagine my surprise upon discovering on a recent flight from London to Seville that I have very strong feelings of rejection for a certain kind of love.
It is the kind in which a couple loves each other so much that they can’t bear to sit apart from each other on a 2h25m flight yet does not love each other enough to pay the additional £30 or so to ensure their seats are next to each other. What inevitably follows is a lovebirds’ seating reshuffle resulting in the disappointment of other passengers (okay, moi) who upon the rearrangement are deprived of their former Ryanair miracle, i.e. an unoccupied seat next to them, and the minimal additional leg space this would have afforded them.
As SHE plonks down next to me into the formerly unoccupied seat, I think of the boy in row 17. Love is also the shared understanding that being apart doesn’t alter our strength of feeling.
Of course, invading my physical space is not enough for this kind of couple. The huffing and shuffling only a prelude to an odour-rich meal squirrelled together from all 5 corners of Stansted Airport. Noodle soup from Itsu. Chicken rice from León. To top things off: rice pudding and a chocolate mousse. Protein-enriched. Why do I know this? How could I fail to notice the PRO+ branding emblazoned on the dessert cups as HE lifts them towards HER face while spoon-feeding (!!!!!!!) her the gooey goodness.
Hearing them blab about how even though this is airport food, this meal is excellently catering to their micronutrient needs, I think of the boy sitting in row 17. Love is also having two separate sections in the fridge. The freedom of never having to think about when you’re hungry, what you’ll eat, where you’ll grocery shop and whether the nutritional composition of your lunch meets any potential muscle-building goals. Love doesn’t have to fit on a spoon. It can also take the shape of a block of butter, that is mine. And so you ask before using it. Our love is never finding myself unexpectedly out of ingredients when I get the late-night urge to bake banana bread.
While the feast ends, the spooning does not. Like a Roman emperor after a lavish meal, SHE stretches across her partner’s legs feigning a postprandial nap (NO ONE can sleep on a Ryanair flight) while HE begins to draw circles on her thighs, up her waist and on to her temples, culminating in a head massage utterly resistant to my passive-aggressive stares.
Involuntarily admiring the healthy blood circulation of the woman’s scalp, I think of the boy sitting in row 17. Love is every single of the ten rows between us. Leaving enough space for me to tell my desires from yours. So that when I decide to follow you to the edge of Europe, it is because I want to, rather than because I feel as if I don’t have a choice.
Ah yes, and our love is
Never.
Ever.
Touching.
My.
Dessert.