She clicked the power button of her cell phone.
7:56.
The sun began to set and the rays of orange and purple and red were hastily strewn over the sky, and their drunken streams of color rained down on the top of the plane.
7:58.
The aisle lights came on. Rapid chatter filled her ears as she clicked her phone on and on, on and off.
7:59.
She had nearly forgotten where she was headed, but the paper boarding pass, now sticky with excessive heat, read Rio, and the unmistakable flags of Brazil waved throughout the plan, propelled by the overhead air conditioning vents. She clicked again.
8:00.
Our time without movement as four hours. The voices of pilot and crew members had echoed through the intercom regularly, but now the speakers hung silent and the carts had retreated into the back corridors. Click.
8:07.
It was time. Standing up, she began to make her way down the crowded aisles and pushed the flimsy metal door open.
8:09.
Looking at her reflection in the cracked mirror, she noticed her possessive gaze lingering in the shadows of her eyes, and the dark circles that stayed steady like bruises beneath them.
Hitting the faucet on, she cupped her hands and filled them until the water ran over her fingertips like the sunset ran over the plane earlier that night.
Since her hands were wet, she dared to click, so her mind did it for her.
8:13.
Bringing her water-filled hands to her face, she watched the rivers and streams form from the water and run down her face like tears. As the taste of of salt slyly mingled with the iron of the sink water, she firmly pushed open the door to the bathroom.
8:19.
Making her way back to her seat, the sounds of broken Portuguese hung thick and hot and sweaty in the air. But no one had uttered a word.
8:26.
Sliding back into her seat, the strings of nonexistent travel pulled and tossed her mercilessly until she fell, softly, back onto the dark blue leather seat.
8:29.
She felt a thud on her shoulder. Her narrow eyes glanced to the right as the sleeping woman sitting next to her had fallen. So she sat, poised and completely still. Dare she move, and let the woman fall?
8:32.
She shrugged.
8:34.
She didn’t care, because the woman’s head had hit the plastic armrest. Startled by her own actions, she clicked.
8:37.
She felt a heavy strain on her pant leg.
8:39.
She ignored it.
8:42.
She waited with breathless pauses, waiting for the comforting tug on her pants that rampidly irritated, and soothed her. 
8:43.
She decided to glance down, and her possessive gaze locked with the gay and merry ones of a child. She quickly looked away.
8:44.
She didn’t care about the child. She wanted to sleep. She looked towards the window.
8:47.
It was closed. The plane was abnormally silent. She muttered abstract thoughts as her mind wandered back over the drunken sunset and rewound back into the gate. Everything had been so pristine and neat and organized, and the 45 minute delay at security had not affected her travel.
8:50.
Her thoughts were interrupted by chatter.
“Why aren’t we moving? I don’t know!” a man yelled through his cellphone. She clicked.
8:52.
She wondered why they weren’t moving, why she had even bothered to board this flight to Rio. She didn’t even know what was in Rio for her. She felt the pull toward the city.
8:54.
She felt a stronger pull on her pant leg, one even stronger than her pull towards Rio.
Looking down at the toddler grasping her pant leg and the mother dragging him away,
She wished she had booked a different flight.
8:57.
She clicked once more as she nodded off, and the engine of the plane began to reverberate.