Fall 2021 | Occasus | Issue 11.2

The Two-Sided Curtain

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now cruising at an altitude of thirty-six thousand feet. Please remain...”. From there I tune out. It’s nothing I’ve never heard before.

Instead, I focus on the flight attendant behind me and notice that she's pulling back The Curtain.

The way they do this always intrigues me: it’s done with such a rapid force, completely obvious to the fact that they are in a rush to separate us. Back when I was on the economy side, it seemed as if The Curtain was about to come to life, grow a mouth, maybe even a set of eyes, and scream right in my face,
“YOU DONT BELONG PAST ME!”

She always used to mock me as a child. Whenever my mother and I would catch a flight, which wasn't very often, I would stare at her for hours. She would sparkle in the sun: glisten a bright shimmery gold. I was left wondering, daydreaming about what occurred in front of her.

Were the passengers performing in a fashion show? Was there a feast of roasted pig and garlic mashed potatoes and decadent chocolate cake served on the rolling carts? What happens in front of her, that is so discrete, so exquisite, so deliciously private that the economy class couldn’t see?

This secret would eat me up inside. I would sometimes pray that she would grow legs and saunter down the aisle all the way to where I was seated. She would smile at me and her teeth would sparkle just like her, perhaps even brighter. I learned somewhere that true white is almost impossible to achieve but here I looked right at it. She would then whisper in my ear, “Follow me.” I would be lead in front of her, finally in on the secret, welcomed into the club, the elite.

My mother would always say “If you are able to get in front of it then you have succeeded.”

So, I guess I have succeeded now. Right?

I take in my surroundings. Seated across the aisle from me is a woman who has the same expression on her face that I make when my greyhound Bella urinates on the floor rather than on her pee pad. Anger, disgust, and even a hint of pity. However, in this case the unfortunate receiver of this look is not my dog, but the flight attendant, with an obviously fake smile plastered across her face.

“I am so sorry ma'am for the inconvenience, can I bring you a complimentary drink? Perhaps a glass of Pinot Noir?”

This produces an immediate change in the woman’s face, her grimace twisting into a smile. If only my dog offered to make up for her mistakes with a glass of champagne.

“Well really? How could I say no to that?”

The drink of the elegant, the powerful. Of course they serve it freely behind The Curtain. This is my first time behind her and it’s not exactly what I anticipated. 

I suppose I had high expectations. After all, she did glow in the darkness of the cabin. She did represent everything I ever dreamed. How was I not to be drawn to her? The thing that interested me the most was her sass. She has quite the superiority complex.

I recall that one time when mother and I walked past her while boarding the plane, and she fell and smacked me.

It didn’t hurt, of course, she means no harm. Immediately afterwards a flight attendant rushed over, apologizing, “I am so sorry! It seems as if the curtain was not attached properly after the last flight!”
She had no idea that it was all a part of The Curtains’ plan to kick me out, boot me to the side where I belonged.

I told my mother about the smack.

“It fell down honey,” she responded. “Didn't you hear the lady? Besides, it’s a piece of fabric. It can't hurt you.” The funny thing is I never said it physically hurt.

My thoughts are interrupted by the same flight attendant who was receiving the scolding earlier. She reminds me of Bella. Docile, seems to be of mild nature. She strikes me as sensitive. Of course, I already knew this. While she was receiving her punishment, I noticed tears welling behind her eyes despite the smile on her face.

“Your dinner, ma’am” she says to me. It is only then I notice the cart. There is no roasted pig, garlic mashed potatoes or even a chocolate cake.

“What is it?”, I ask. Trying not to show the disappointment in my voice. She doesn’t notice it.

“This is tonight's delicacy. Roasted chicken, with a side of classic Caesar salad and a delicious vanilla cupcake for dessert!”

She gently places my food on the tray in front of me. Everything is plated neatly on a white glass plate. The chicken is in the middle, with the salad on the side in a matching white glass bowl. It is then I realized I haven't eaten today. The chicken looks delicious. I cut into it with the silver knife and fork Human Bella gave me before she scampered away to serve another guest their dinner for the night.

It’s dry.

Both the salad and cupcake were good, I enjoyed them. However, I could not stop thinking about the chicken.

It gave me such high hopes. It reminded me of her. I glare at the remainder of the chicken on my plate. I can't even finish it.

“Is there something wrong with your chicken ma'am?” It’s the flight attendant again. I don’t have the heart to tell her I didn’t like it because the truth is that I don’t really know what to say.

“No, nothing is wrong. It is just a tad dry but...”

“Well, I mean, it is airplane food!” She replies with a chuckle.

Yeah, she’s right. It is airplane food. It was silly of me to think that it wouldn’t be. All because I was served this meal on a white fancy plate with silver cutlery behind The Curtain doesn’t mean that it’s not airplane food.

But was it wrong for me to have these expectations?

What else is the reason for her? The Curtain? She hides, she protects, people like me. I worked so hard to belong here. Long hours at the office which could have been spent at least attempting to look for a boyfriend. Now I’m alone. Sitting in business class on this flight to Florida with a human version of my dog serving me dry chicken that even the real Bella would refuse.

I look out my window and it’s pitch-black outside. We are almost there. We. When I say we I mean the people up here in business class as well as the people behind The Curtain. We all end up in the same place no matter what side of her we are on.

I’m suddenly very tired, my eyes droop and begin to close. I realize I never got a glass of Pinot Noir. Maybe I should have complained more.

It’s time for the fashion show. The woman-with-the-grimace unbuckles her seatbelt, rips off the large trench coat she's wearing to reveal a glamorous dress underneath. The dress is purple, sparkly, and so skintight her ribcage is visible through the fabric. That must be ridiculously uncomfortable.

The gown shines, not as brightly as The Curtain of course.

I watch the woman walk up and down the aisle, with the rest of the crew as well as business class applauding her. She strikes poses at the end of each strut; confidence beams off her.

Abruptly, The Curtain detaches herself from her rod, no longer protecting us. She is shining so bright I cannot see her color. However, I can see her long legs sticking out underneath, and at the end of them are the highest heels I have ever seen.

She leaves behind a hole. I can see the others in economy class. They stare at me and I feel like a zoo animal even though I think they are the ones in the cage.

I can only guess it is her turn in the fashion show.

She is walking towards me. Wobbling rather. Her heels are way too high.

It is almost blinding, her golden glow, and I must shield my eyes. She is getting closer; I can see it. I can feel it.

The closer she gets the more her light diminishes. I can remove my hands from my face and make eye contact with her. Her dress no longer shines, rather it is just plain blue. She bends down next to me and cracks a smile. I jump back, startled at the sight of her teeth. They are crooked, and surely not the white that I remember, rather the complete opposite. Is there such a colour as true yellow?

Blue. She is blue, not gold. Her teeth are yellow, not white. It is almost as if she is two faced. How can I get back the face of her I saw on the other side?

She whispers in my ear; I can feel her hot breath, “Am I everything you dreamed of?”

I am so tired, too tired to have a proper conversation and at least attempt to be nice.

“No.” I respond out loud, jolting myself into consciousness.

Human Bella turns around to the sound of my voice, making eye contact with me, and suddenly it hits me.

​Now that I am awake, I should complain to snag myself a glass of that Pinot Noir.

Victoria Domazet is a second-year Linguistics major at Western University, intending to minor in Creative Writing.