Inner narration while on an airplane.

It had been after 11 when she had showered that morning. She had foregone her usual routine and merely stuck her hair in a sloppy bun. The kind created with a mere ponytail holder instead of hairpins.

Hours and hours later when she decided that she needed to let her hair loose so that she could properly rest her head against the seat of the plane, her hair was still damp and fragrant. The soft and sweet scent of her conditioner permeated the air around her seat.

She had both of her hands palms down resting on opposite pages of an open book. She had the dim thought that maybe if she just paused for a moment in her reading and placed her hands there she could absorb the author's wordy goodness.

What must it be like to procure such perfect words from thin air? To say the exact right thing in the most poetically precise manner?

Some girls are jealous others' of success with men. Or others' success in the workforce. Or in the home. She was jealous of the successful wrangling with words. Why hadn't she thought to put this word with that word?

Sometime the narrative in her head would feel so good. So captivating. Surely a whole story was there somewhere. It was always the same: lack of means to write it down and so it slipped from her mind. Gone forever. Or write it down only to come back to it in a few months and pronounce it absolute rubbish.