A bell rings and a voice says, “Seat belts please,” while three men talk down the aisle to each other, twist in their seats as they discuss office politics. The stewardess jokes with the best-looking man, the one with the loudest voice. It seems that the idea of change comes alive centuries before the body walks it. Even the gesture of keeping elbows in, sharing the arm rest, takes years. I go to the restroom and find the toilet seat up. It’s not dark or in the middle of the night, so I don’t fall in. Now the three men are standing up in the aisle, drinks in hand, loud voices, hanging over a man reading Kurt Vonnegut, a man I might want to date if I were straight. My life has changed from burping-baby-suburbs to wearing black at San Francisco poetry readings. I find a magazine with an article by Gore Vidal about the Kennedy’s and their pure silk umbrellas, turn to Molly Ivins lassoing Ross Perot, nudge an elbow out of my way, can’t wait 2000 years today.