I could take you somewhere else, it purrs, the sound rattling in your ribs. Further than you could imagine. We could visit Paris, if you desire, and we’ll make sure to arrive at the sunset, when The City of Lights sits flushed like a girl at her first soiree. Or maybe Norway to witness aurora borealis? India to visit the Taj Mahal, or even a pilgrimage to Vegas so you might worship at its temples of high-priced bacchanalia?

We could go anywhere, your god whispers. Only stay with me, stay with us, stay.

You counter with a nervous laugh and push onto your feet.

The plane holds its breath.

Somewhere in first class, a baby (you picture the child as blonde, blue-eyed, cheeks chubby from an easy supply of milk) hiccups a cry and stops, mesmerized by the energies pacing the narrow aisles. Somewhere, a stewardess (she is of Mediterranean stock, her curls unruly, lashes thick as midnight) falling in love with an old friend, her fingers warm against the other woman’s brown cheek.

They’re expecting me, you breathe into the quiet.

Flights can be delayed, your god ripostes.

You shake your head. At some point, we all have to go home.

This is home, it insists, plaintive.

I can’t, you sigh. They’re waiting.

A few years ago, you nearly said yes.

It was your last flight from Scandinavia. You did not call it that then. But you understood you were never going back. The plane—a Boeing 777, carbon fibre-enforced and energetic as a colt—crooned sweetly to you, dazzled to carry someone like you.

You’re my first, it confided. Shy as a boy. My first priest.

You blushed.

That was the day you realized that religion isn’t always an ascetic pursuit. You can fall in love with the sutras of never-stopping, always-moving, with the mantra of footsteps on clean white tiles, the electronic voice reciting departures like prayers for the dead. Stay, the plane said, wrapping you in its thrum, the way a man might lay his woolen coat over your shoulders, might kiss your face. Stay with me forever.

I’ll love you until you die. I’ll love you beyond that. I’ll hold your bones in my cargo hold, and your soul in my voice. We’ll never, ever be apart.

And you almost gave in.

You were so very tired of being second-guessed and second best, so heartbroken by neglect, by the idea that to be happy, you’d need to slice strips from your heart. Matrimony was compromises you weren’t sure you were willing to make. But you loved him, the man you left behind. You thought he would be home.

But he wasn’t.

Stay, your plane said so gently.

But you didn’t.

You conjure their faces: mother, sister, brother-by-conscious-selection.