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International Date Line

Magdalena Hentel

    The brochure in Julie’s hand was bright and glossy. “Finest Travel Experience,” it said, and “Visit the Land Down Under!” People in bathing suits rubbed elbows with exotic animals and birds. Even the font, with its looping e’s and o’s, lured with the promise of pleasure.
    “Matt?”
    Matt’s knees were drawn up and positioned slightly at an angle; economy class wasn’t kind to people over six feet tall. He tapped his pencil against the reports spread out in his lap.
    “Look at this, Matt: they have a 1888 racing cutter at the maritime museum. That sounds like something you’d love.”
    “Mhm.”
    “We could go see it. Then the Opera House, of course. And the zoo.”
    Matt’s pencil stopped tapping and crossed a series of lines through figures on a graph. His brows were drawn in concentration, his hairline, once straight and even, now dipping and curving like an irregular seaboard. Julie felt a twinge of strangeness at not having previously been struck by the extent of this change in landscape. But it had been a while since they had sat in such proximity for so long.
    “We could go to some nice restaurants, now that we can afford it,” she said. “Wouldn’t be like last time. I bet you the seafood’s just... Matt?”
    “Mhm.”
    “Matt, are you listening? When will we talk about this, after we land?”
    “What?” Matt woke from his trance. “Relax, Jules. There’s plenty of time.” He bent to his report again.
    Julie closed the pamphlet and stuffed it into the seat pocket in front of her, next to the emergency evacuation procedures. Outside the window, the sun illuminated the clouds below with a bright, unearthly serenity. The scene looked the way she had once imagined heaven to be: an endless expanse of white, untouched perfection. If she were to jump, she thought, the clouds would cradle her, hold her. She turned her eyes away and pulled down the plastic shade.
    On the armrest beside her, Matt’s elbow was a jutting, aggressive thing. Julie felt her stomach tighten. The drinks cart came trundling along just in time.
    “Something to drink?”
    She adjusted her tray. “Wine for me. White, please.”
    Manicured hands unscrewed the lid of the tiny bottle, poured the yellowish liquid into a plastic glass. The flight attendant leaned over with Julie’s wine, twisting his hips to avoid the napping woman in the aisle seat and Matt with his mountain of papers. His uniform was crisp despite the many hours already spent in the air, his cologne strong and sharp.
    “Thank you.” Julie breathed in the unfamiliar smell, redolent of freedom and duty-free shopping; nodded at the tanned face. But the flight attendant was already brandishing his fold-out smile at the people in the next row.
    Julie sipped her wine. “Matt—”
    Matt’s shoulders jerked in annoyance. “Quit it, Jules, will you? I don’t have much more to do, honest. And I want to finish before we get there. Said I’d e-mail the results by Friday.”
    “Sure, okay.”
    She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and imagined the air pressure in the cabin dropping suddenly, people being sucked out of their seats, Matt’s papers flying every which way. The morbid satisfaction of dwelling on this picture was pleasantly absorbing, but soon wore off.
    Shivering, she pulled her sweater tighter around her; the circulated air in the plane was cold. Though it had likely been through hundreds of pairs of lungs by now, its touch on her skin was as impersonal as if it had come out of a laboratory.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice floated over their heads. “The captain would like to inform you that we have just crossed the International Date Line. The current date is Friday, November 17. Please adjust your watches accordingly.”
    All around, passengers dutifully began to raise their wrists and nudge up their sleeves. Julie hesitated and, seeing Matt gather up his papers, leaned against his shoulder.
    “How about that, we just lost a whole day.”
    “We’ll get it back.” His voice, as usual, was unperturbed.
    “I know. But isn’t it curious to see a whole day just disappear?”
    Matt slipped half his papers into an attaché case, closed it, and managed to shove it under his seat without dislodging the pile still on his knees. Then he looked at Julie, eyes narrowed sceptically. “How old are you?”
    “I’m twenty-eight, thank you very much, and you’re just jealous because you’ve lost your enthusiasm.”
    “You mean I’ve matured.”
    “No, you’ve grown crotchety and cantankerous.”
    “Cantankerous.” Matt exhaled. For a moment he said nothing, then the corners of his mouth began inching up in a half-smile.
    Julie felt herself relax. “Right.”
    “That’s a big word.”
    “Oh, shut up.”
    “Make me.” He grinned.
    Their hands were touching now, Matt’s fingertips rubbing Julie’s palm. The hairs on his forearms were raised; he was probably cold, too. Julie ran her hand up his arm, to his shoulder, resting her fingers on his neck.
    “Remember our first trip to Australia?” she said.
    “Sure. Backpacks, hostels, sleeping at the airport while waiting for the stand-by flight...”
    “It was a wonderful trip!”
    “I never said it wasn’t. An exciting way to meet and hook up, anyway.”
    She smiled. “Do you remember on the flight back, when we...”
    Matt’s eyes locked with hers, and suddenly it was as if they were alone in a room.
    “Yeah.”
    Julie leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Do you want to do it again?”
    “What, now?”
    “Yes, now.”
    “But, Jules, the plane’s full of people, and—”
    “So? It was last time, too.”
    “Right. I guess it was.”
    Matt gave one of his sheepish smiles, and Julie felt herself gripped by a memory. The way they had held each other and kissed, unwilling to wait until landing, the novelty of touch sharp and potent. Matt’s skinny hips and warm hands, and how the tiny space in the airplane bathroom seemed to expand around them until it was no longer a constraint but a buffer, protecting them and binding them closer together.
    “Let’s go,” she said and tugged at Matt’s hand. He rose awkwardly and stacked his reports on the seat. They squeezed past the napping woman.
    The plane was full. Snatches of conversation spilled into the aisle, eyes followed them as they walked past. It had been like this the last time too, no doubt, but somehow this time the scrutiny mattered a lot more.
    “Jules.” Matt stopped by the door to the lavatory, looking uncertain.
    “Oh, come on, Matt...”
    “I really don’t know about this. Can’t we wait until we get there? The hotel room would be a lot more comfortable.”
    “I don’t want to wait.”
    “Why not?”
    “I just don’t, that’s all.” Julie could hear her voice going shrill. She knew she was being unreasonable, but how could she explain it had to be here and now? The door to the bathroom beckoned like a talisman.
    “It’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll go in first, then you walk around a bit and come back when no one’s looking.”
    Matt stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. He said nothing.
    “Matt?”
    “All right, all right.”
    The curtain swung behind him as he disappeared into the business class compartment. Julie pressed the latch and pushed open the door.
    The bathroom was just like any other airplane lavatory: sterile-looking, utilitarian and tiny. And yet its moulded plastic walls seemed to embrace Julie as she sat on top of the toilet lid. The shiny sink fixtures reflected the light with an optimistic glint, the paper towels in their dispenser looked crisp and a little rough. She had an urge to press her cheek to them and relish their texture.
    After a few minutes, she heard a soft knock on the door and let Matt in. There was no room for two people to stand apart in such a small space; immediately they were pressed together in a forced intimacy.
    “Any trouble?”
    “No.” Matt looked down at her from his lanky height. “So, how do you want to do this?”
    “Um... quickly might be a good idea.”
    “Right.”
    He put his hands on Julie’s hips and leaned closer. She moved to accommodate him, and felt the toilet seat dig into her leg as the muscles in her back strained. He swayed, tried rearranging his feet, straightened up.
    “This is difficult. How’d we manage last time?”
    “On the sink.” She smiled at the memory. “Although the layout might have been different. Another airline, you know.”
    The rim of the sink was too high to easily scramble up on, and it was splattered with water. She grabbed a few paper towels and wiped up the mess, feeling slightly put out.
    “Move over a bit, so I can get a foothold,” she said, and used the toilet to hoist herself up. Fighting to keep her balance, she wrapped her legs around Matt and kissed him.
    Matt’s mouth tasted of stale coffee. His hands hovered for a while, then clumsily reached under Julie’s skirt.
    She flinched. “Matt.”
    “What?”
    “I know we’re in a hurry, but... you could at least touch my breasts or something.”
    Matt’s hand retreated from under the flower-patterned cotton and cupped Julie’s left breast. It stroked, once, twice. Then it just sort of lay there. Annoyed, Julie tried to move, to arch her back a bit. The last time they had done this, they had needed no stage management.
    “You could act like you mean it, you know,” she said.
    “Damn it, Julie!” Matt broke contact and stepped back. The withdrawal of his touch felt so abrupt that she almost toppled to the floor. “Do you want to do this or not?”
    “I do!” She took a deep breath. It was true; she did want this, more than she could easily explain. Only it didn’t seem to be turning out right. Once, this cramped space had nestled them in their own private universe, now the metal that touched her skin felt hard and cold. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    Once again, they kissed. It still felt off, but to mention that now would have dredged up matters far too troublesome to be allayed with a simple apology. Julie closed her eyes instead, willing herself to focus on the moment, and stroked the front of Matt’s jeans.
    He moved closer. She tugged at the button and zipper, slipped her hand inside. His skin was warm, the trail of hair soft and private. As always, Julie had the impression of intruding into the lair of some untamed, fragile animal, to coax it out of its sleep.
    Only, this time, nothing happened.
    She curled her hand around him and stroked a few times, gently, then harder. Still nothing. Matt’s mouth was slightly open; they weren’t kissing anymore, more like breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were shut tight and his forehead screwed up in concentration.
    Julie’s thighs tightened around Matt’s hips, pulling him closer, as if the intensity in her body could be communicated to his, to the part of him that needed it. She sped up her hand’s movements.
    “It’ll be fine, Jules,” Matt said, his tone unnaturally bright. “Just give me a minute.”
    But the minute, passing tensely, served only to turn Julie and Matt from participants to spectators. Julie could feel the mirror at her back reflecting their actions, could sense the tableau grow increasingly ridiculous. They were both self-conscious now, touch almost too awkward to bear.
    “Stop, Jules. Just stop.”
    Matt stilled Julie’s hand and turned away. Quickly, he did up his jeans and straightened his shirt. Julie reached out to touch his shoulder.
    “Don’t.” He shrugged her hand away.
    “But Matt, it makes no difference, it happens—”
    “I said, don’t! What part of that didn’t you fucking understand?” He spat out his words. He was looking straight at her now.
    Julie felt cold, though not from fear. Rather, the chill had something of amazement in it, of being let in on a great and awful mystery, like the moment long ago it had first dawned on her that she, too, would one day die.
    Matt’s fists were clenched, his face flushed—and Julie knew with a certainty transcending reason that this wasn’t in anger or hatred, but in self-defence. His body was all sharp angles, discouraging touch, and the look he gave her held an unyielding core of individuality: alien and inaccessible. Suddenly she felt like a character in a play, grappling with a door that will never open—for the simple reason that it isn’t a door at all, merely the image of one, painted on wood.
    Matt left, and Julie had enough presence of mind to turn the lock lest some passenger with a full bladder barge in. She glanced around, feeling stunned. The lavatory looked exactly as it had ten minutes before: plastic, self-contained. The ventilation unit hissed as it sucked out used air and pumped recycled air back in. The current moved through her hair, probing her scalp with its institutional touch.
    Slowly, she lowered herself until she was sitting on the floor, hugging her legs to her chest. She laid her head on her knees and rubbed her cheek against them; they felt warm and soft, and reassuringly familiar. If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could hear her heart pumping blood cells through her body. Round and round they flowed, pushed along by the rhythmic pulse of life: an unbroken circle, the only world that would ever truly be her own. She wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed tightly.

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This appears in a pre-2010 issue of cc&d magazine. Saddle-stitched issues are no longer printed, but you can requesting it “re-released” through amazon sale as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book! Email us for re-release to order.

This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book!
Email us for re-release to order.