I met a hostage on the plane.

My gaze brushed his as I glanced up from my reading. Grinning, his ample chin jutted toward the vacant middle seat. Reluctantly, I stepped into the aisle as he jostled his carry-on into the overhead bin.

His glasses, slightly askew, were plotting their escape.
His thin short hairs stood in a half ring around his head, a defeated army ready to surrender to old age.

“You’re the only one here who appears to be thinking”, he proclaimed,
puncturing my last hope of solitude.

For the next four hours, words spilled out of the hostage’s mouth.
Sometimes they gushed and other times they trickled.
I received them with the grace of a child accepting Grandma’s hand-knitted sweater on Christmas morning.

His soliloquy was punctuated only by greedy gulps of premium airline Wifi.
After a few swallows, the stench of Fox News was hot on his breath.

“I hated law school”, said the hostage.
“I studied philosophy as an undergrad and absolutely loved it. All this legal stuff is so dry and boring.”

“Then why are you doing it?” I asked, simply.

“Because I’m afraid.”

I stepped off the plane with a silent hope:
that one day, he would be free.