franceslievens

“They are tricky machines, those planes.” There was a definite Northern twang in his speech, but Lloyd couldn't locate the accent. The plane engineer looked roughed up in his worn out and durty overalls. His hands were greasy, but caressed his machine with the love of a father cradling his new-born son.
The engineer continued his explanation to the news reporter: “Gotta have her fueled up with kerosene. You need loads to make the pressure hold. Don't want her to implode. Gotta make sure everything is airtight. Don't want accidents to happen. Those people are going on a trip of a lifetime.” Once more he let his fingers slide over the shiny metal.
Lloyd followed this example and let his own fingers glide over silver and white paint. It felt strangely cool in this heat. He tried to picture the people inside the plane, strapped up, waiting for the journey to begin. The engineer was right: tricky things they were. They gave you a vision of lifting you up high in the sky, taking you somewhere. And then days or even weeks later you emerged out of it again, having experienced – like the man said – a trip of a lifetime. You had seen places, visited things. It was all there, in your memory.
Still everybody knew it was never the plane that took off.