text: Thirty thousand feet up in the air, why decide that this row was the right one to move him to. Certainly, there’s more legroom, but there’s also the sensation. Looking to the left, ideas begin to form. The little voice says, “Do it. Do it and let yourself go.” But he can’t. Thinking about the plunge. The sensation of falling. Stomach dropping, G-forces rippling his face, tearing at his eyes, his clothes. Attempting to rip him apart before he inevitably strikes the ground at hundreds of miles per hour. And after the impact, darkness. The end. Yet that can’t happen. As the stewardess hands him his peanuts, he returns his attention to page twenty-three of the financial report he owes his boss when he lands. He pours himself a drink. A four and a half hour flight with two-hour delay, three hours to his office because of traffic, twenty minutes of listening to his boss yell at him because he’s such a failure and another hour home. Drinking his scotch, his mind returns to the row. The sensation that almost overwhelmed him. That almost forced him to leap from thirty thousand feet. That almost ended him. Here it was again. Dragging himself to the balcony he looks over the edge. The people seem so small and insignificant from his vantage point, as if they were ants, following their daily routines. He gazes up at the iconic statue, stationed in the harbor, which once welcomed his great-grandparents to the home of the brave. He climbs up onto the railing; still undecided. A flag whips about in the gust of wind. And a woman screams.