Zeitgeist

The five men were scattered on the plane. From where he stood, behind the flight attendant pushing the trolley, he could see all of them. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Five men, wearing the exact same outfit as him, right to his yellow framed glasses. How could it be possible? He had his suit designed by a friend in Bologna, he remembered its conception around a glass of cheap chianti: lime green corduroy, a ladybird for luck on the left lapel, the word "Gestalt" crudely stitched in red on the breast pocket. He couldn't make out what was written on the jacket of the man closest to him, but there was definitely a word there, in red. The man met his gaze. For a moment, he thought he was staring at a mirror. He had to talk to that man. To all of them.

They met by the lavatory. In the windows, the cotton-wool sea had an orange hue in the setting sun. One of the men was German, two of them were French, and the fourth one was Irish, like him. It almost sounded like a joke. They were all as disconcerted as he was. They had all come up with the design themselves, independently. "Peut-être est-ce dans l'air du temps?" said one of the French men to the other. "Zeitgeist", translated the German man.

Hélène L.

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