Who's There?

As I lie in bed, my window slightly ajar, lets in the summer’s evening air from deep within suburban High Wycombe. My bedroom nestled in between five others, my inner week sanctuary after a tiring day and the inevitable tea time social of shared accommodation. At last, some time on my own to reflect, my door tightly shut, they know not to disturb, it is usually open, and throughout the night on a weekend. A passenger jet flies overhead; it is unusually the only sound at the time and holds clear as it moves across the sky above my bedroom. Closing my eyes, I picture first the nose of the plane, making swift but gentle headway through a clear and crimson sky, then I peel away and down the fuselage, its length lit with windows filled with happy heads in my mind’s eye. I picture the people in their plane, some sleeping, some eating, others engrossed within the flashing blues of their screens, and the hot hostesses working the aisle from time to time. Others look down upon my tiny town as an amber glow of clustered urban suns, the social dynamics of hundreds of homes, doors to doors, streets to streets, crawling and nesting. I can picture them and their surroundings; I wonder if they picture me and mine? I’m thinking what somebody else might be thinking, and suddenly, somebody else might be thinking what I am thinking - it is me, I think.