My co-pilot loves polka dots. I love their simple English. Dots that could connect me to the whole world if I wanted, and I do. Polka dot scarves for summer picnics and walks through symmetrical green gardens. Polka dot shirts for shimmering nightclubs and photo opportunities. Polka dot skirts for Sundays and intercontinental flights. I can imagine polka dots tattooed all over her body but maybe they’re just freckles. Our plane is covered in polka dots: black on white, pink on orange, green on black. We’ve nicknamed it “Polka Dot”. We taxi down a runway of polka dots, take off and climb steeply, our flight path a haze of polka dot fields, green on yellow, cream on black. Two cats dancing the polka. Polka dot eyes, winking. I want to be a black polka dot on a white background. A green polka dot on a black background. A purple polka dot on a green background. A red polka dot on a red background. She’s a polka dot. When I take a shower, polka dots fly from the rose. Polka dots! When I drink tomato soup and spill it all over my white t-shirt, there’s more polka dots for me. Jippie! The two small holes left in my shirt when I remove my “I Heart Polka” badge could also be polka dots, in the right light. Polka dot, polka dot, polka dot – if I keep repeating these words, all the other words in the world become polka dots. It’s like looking directly at the sun and then closing your eyes, living in that blinding polka dot world. Underneath my clothes I am a polka dot. Our coded instructions (altitude, bearing, payload, targets …) come through in Morse but I can only make out the dots. The dashes remain a mystery. The silent word between two polka dot lips. The heeee of an excited breath. The raindrop on the window, the polka dot shadow on the wall. Happiness in a polka dot. Our polka dots, your shiny spots. Take off. Polka dot.


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