The plane is packed seat to seat with well-off unmarried men. I am fascinated by them and their outsized hirsute hands, posed in clamshells and placed on sticky, smudgy armrests. They wear Apples Watch and cheerfully grow out their manes into plumes. Are they happy? Do they rent or own? It’s late, and meal service was hours ago. How the heart envies those who can fall asleep on planes. These men do take their ZipCars across decaying American highways. They seek nobility and purpose, knights of the modern realm astride their hybrid steeds. But they are led astray, by mergers and audits. Do they wonder about old age? Does old age loom from far up ahead or does it suffuse, like cold through a window? Who are they? What are they? And at what point do we get angry – real fist-into-a-ball kind of angry – about what we have done to the pre-boarding process at airports across the country? But these men sleep. Let them.