The plane swings sharply to the left. I peer out the window, trying to find my street somewhere past the Hilton at Dupont Circle. I am sitting directly on the wing. The plane turns as if spinning on an axis, and the window is washed in the pouring in of white sunlight. The skin on my forearm prickles as it heats. I close my eyes. I am Icharus. I am the sun.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me,” my neighbor says, “can you close that window shade? It’s making a glare on my screen.”