(Memory: silent; stolen back)
The same blue sky as ever. Yet things look different when other people watch.
Five, six, seven -- how many were there? Some trailing soft white lines of contrail, some isolated dots, all moving at their own speeds and angles. He lifts an ivory-pale hand and watches one dot disappear behind a black-painted fingernail. Then it reemerges by his thumb. He pretends to pinch it. The ship doesn't notice.
Soon it sails on.
And all that he holds is my attention.