Page 23 of Seeing Grayscale

“Did you go to school for it?” Of course, he did.

“Some, yes.”

“Are you into airplanes or somethin’?”

He smirks. “When I was a kid. I had thought about being a pilot, but… well, it seems I was always meant to run the show versus act in it, so to speak.”

I frown. “That’s stupid.”

A chuckle. “Stupid?” Flicking his eyes to mine, he puffs his cigarette while I shrug.

“You have the entire world at your fingertips. If you want to fly an airplane, fly one. I—not many have that.”

Something washes over his face, a hardness I haven’t seen before. I don’t know what it means, and it feels weird to ask, so I let the subject drop. It’s quiet for a while while we finish our cigarettes. I glance around for somewhere to put it out but come up empty.

“I usually don’t smoke in my car,” he mumbles, then tosses his butt out.

Well, he did it first.

I do the same, and he runs a hand through his hair. “The house won’t have much stocked as far as food goes, so we can pick up something in town.”

Topic change. Got it. Flying is a sensitive subject. “Alright.”

“Anything you are in the mood for?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he insists, flicking the turn signal to switch lanes.

I’m not all that hungry; my odd breakfast still lingers in my body. I don’t usually get too much to eat these days, so I’m used to going without. When I was a kid, my appetite was insatiable. A garbage disposal is what my mom would call me. Something like a smile tugs at my lips for a second before it falls away.

Food is fucking food. I might not like gas station hot dogs, but if it’s that or I go hungry, I’ll take it every time.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Banana bread.” It slips out involuntarily—chalk it up to thinking about my mom.

That deep chuckle sounds through the car as he peeks at me. “Banana bread?”

“It used to be one of my favorites.”

“Used to?”

“I don’t get it.” I frown.

“If something is your favorite, that implies it still is.”

“Favorites change. People forget about them or find something better,” I argue because his logic doesn’t make sense.

“I think it’s more of people thinking they need to seek out something better instead of accepting what they like. Or even changing those tastes to fit a better narrative or image. Favorite literally means preferred above all others of the same kind.”

“What are you, a dictionary?” I laugh.

“No, but indulge me. If you had every type of bread laid out before you, which one would you pick?”

Well, he’s got me there. “Banana. Every fucking time.”

“Then,” he says brightly, “it’s still your favorite.”

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