There is a plane that always flies by with a banner. Any time you spot it, it’s always far away with the approaching clouds. You notice it sometimes by its engine hum echoing lazily off the scattered farmsteads, or sometimes by its slow shadow sliding over the fields of corn.
Today the sun bakes the back of your hand as you squint beneath it. The banner on the plane says… well, you can just make out a word in the middle of a phrase that looks like “car.” Alright. A car advertisement. Your mind can finally settle. The plane turns, the banner illegible now. You’re about to turn back to your own car at the gas pump when the banner flaps again and you catch another word: “blood.”
You wonder what the banner could possibly be advertising. Interrupting, the fueling gun in your tank pops. You grab the worn handle and return it to its dock in the fueling station. Your hand comes away with something mildly sticky. The substance is red-brown. Diesel isn’t sticky. Chocolate isn’t red. You wipe your palm hard and repeatedly on your thick jeans, rubbing stain into the fibers until your hand is only red-kissed.
When you look up the plane is gone.
Your steering wheel bears a mark where you gripped it that day long after you’ve scrubbed the color off your hand.
