Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

done quite a bit of it in his time but now he was done with it. Tom had retreated to his narrowboat still burdened by emotional hurt, not to punish himself, but to ensure that he remained constantly aware of those that were lost. He brushed his teeth with his finger and smiled in the mirror to check his teeth. It was a strong and surprisingly gentle face that smiled back.

He returned to the seat pod. Nia stirred in hers as he sat. She opened her eyes and smiled. Tom smiled back. It felt both odd yet natural. Nia shut her eyes again. Tom watched her for a moment, knowing he was smitten and thinking how truly lovely she was, then, with his free hand he pulled out his phone, popped in his air pods, opened the screen, found Kate Bush’s Babooshka and hit play. Nia stirred again next to him and opened her eyes.

“What are you listening to?” she asked.

He gave her one of his air pods and she put it in her left ear.

“Oh, I like this,” she said and closed her eyes again.

After the song was over, she opened her eyes and asked him about his music. She remembered that he was wearing air pods when she first saw him at the gate. They talked about their favourite music, favourite bands. Although they were of similar ages, they had different tastes. Tom had eclectic tastes but was anchored by eighties’ music. “Inherited from my sister,” he explained.

Nia’s tastes were 1990s’ Britpop: Oasis, Blur, and Pulp. She didn’t feel the time was right to mention she had partied with most of the bands. She quickly mentioned that she had also grown fond of musical theatre and had had roles in several productions. Tom had only seen one musical, Evita, and that was only because a college girlfriend had dragged him to the theatre to see it.

“Next time I’m in one, I’ll send you a ticket,” Nia joked, and Tom quite liked the idea of them remaining in some kind of touch after the flight’s end. They continued to talk, occasionally awkwardly, but mostly engagingly for the remainder of the flight.

It was a still and dark dawn as the big jet crossed the English coastline. Nia pointed to the twinkling lights of little villages, the orange glow of streetlamps, tiny traffic alive with the shining of miniature head and taillights, she wondered aloud where they were all going so early in the morning. The enveloping soft glow of dawn spread across the patchwork landscape exposing towns and roads that Nia recognised from her numerous approaches to Heathrow. She was happy to be approaching home but, as she turned to Tom, she was struck by the sudden reality that whatever they had shared over the last seven hours was about to end. Tom felt it too and he wanted to say something to her, but he struggled to find the words. They were suddenly quiet. Nia, who made her living with and through words, found herself suddenly at a loss for them.

***

Heathrow. That Morning

The landing was smooth. The bump and jolt of the heavy jet’s landing gear touching the runway at one hundred and sixty miles per hour was barely perceptible.

“Good pilot,” Tom exclaimed really to himself and Nia nodded in agreement.

“Nice to be on the ground,” she said.

Tom nodded, “I don’t mind flying in these big jets, but I bloody hate helicopters. I’d be happy if I never set foot in another helicopter again. It’s always nice to be back on the ground.”

“Yes, always nice to be home,” Nia said again with just a hint of wistfulness.

Both were wondering how they could transition into something that would serve as a bridge to an ongoing connection, something more than what could so easily become the transient connection of two passengers thrown together for the duration of a flight. The seat belt light was extinguished with a ding and the big jet filled with the sounds of hundreds of passengers standing, opening baggage bins, and removing bags and sundry items. Both Nia and Tom stood and retrieved their various personal items. They both looked at each other willing the other to say something. Neither did.

Tom wrestled for the right words to say and the right way to say them. Nia struggled with the desire to connect and her imperative to remain detached. They were shepherded out of the aircraft by still smiling flight attendants. Tom shouldered one of Nia’s bags. They talked about the London weather. Through the terminal’s glass sides, a cold London winter waited. Passport control was mercifully smooth and quick. Nia waited for Tom to emerge from the border force booth and together they proceeded to move to the next stage of airport experience. Tom hesitated as they approached the signs for baggage claim.

“Don’t you have any bags to pick up?” Nia asked looking at the small cabin bag he carried with a sense of incredulity.

“No, I travel light,” Tom answered patting the bag. The phrase, ‘travel light, travel alone’, came to mind. “Occupational hazard of army life and then from living on a narrowboat,” he smiled.

“Will you wait for me to get my bags?” Nia asked.

“Of course,” Tom replied gallantly. “I’ll help if you’d like.”

Tom retrieved Nia’s bags noting that she did not travel light and loaded them onto a trolley. Together, they emerged through the frosted glass doors that formed the barrier between passport control, baggage collection, and the rest of the airport. The overhead lights appeared to diffuse the area in an unnatural harsh yellow light. Nia quickly wrapped her scarf up and over her chin and slipped a bobble hat on her head, tucking a lot of her hair up and under it. She also appeared to shrink as she changed her gait. She was a different character.

There was a small