Apples to Oranges -- flash fiction

He looked at her book. "I like cats," he said.

The woman didn't look up.

"Good book, is it?" he asked.

She looked at him, her eyebrows drawn together as though she didn't understand his question.

"The book, Cat's Cradle." He nodded toward her book. "The one you're reading."

"Oh." She closed the book, keeping her place with her index finger. "Yes, I think it is a pretty good book. It's not about cats though."

"I know," he said. "It's one of my mother's favorites." He guessed the woman was late thirties, maybe early forties. "Read a lot do you?" he asked.

"Some," she said. "Especially when I fly."

"You want me to stop talking?" He smiled.

She smiled, too, the corners of her eyes crinkling. He liked that her whole face participated in the smile.

"I don't know. What do you want to talk about?"

"Religion and politics," he answered.

"Ah, safe subjects. And we've known each other how long?"

"Well, let's see. This flight will be about an hour and a half. I figure if we have coffee after we get there, we will have known each other a life-time."

She folded the upper corner of the page she was reading and closed her book. His mother would have a fit if he treated a book that way. The woman wore gray slacks, a cream colored blouse made of some kind of soft fabric, and a brightly colored sweater -- maybe handmade. His mother would like that. And the woman wasn't wearing a wedding ring. No rings at all, in fact. He twisted the ring on his right, ring finger. It had been his grandfather's ring. Silver and turquoise.

"I was born a Capricorn," she said. "But I've grown into an Aquarius. Aquarian? I'm a registered Republican, and I've always lived in states where my vote didn't count." She hesitated, then added, "I'm a dog person. Now, your turn."

"Capricorn is a religion?"

"Isn't it?" she asked.

"Okay, then I'm Comanche. My mother grew up in Oklahoma when everyone was Democrat until they all became Republicans, but she never changed, so neither did I."

"Indian?" she asked, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, as though surprised.

As if she couldn't tell by looking at him. Unless she was blind which she obviously was not. For proof, the book lying in her lap.

"I thought Indians are supposed to be the strong, silent type," she said.

"And I thought Aquariuses or Aquarians, whichever, are supposed to be progressive, original, independent. Hardly sounds like a Republican."

"So, do you read?" She asked, changing the subject.

"I do. Some narrative history. McCullough, Ambrose. Some classics. Hemingway, Kesey, Follet, Asimov. And I like Vonnegut, too," he said pointing toward her book.

"Classics? I'm more like Jane Austin, Atlas Shrugged, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Those are classics," she said.

An hour and a half later, he said, "We're apples . . . ."

"And oranges," she said.

"Would you like a coffee?" he asked.

"Sure, why not," she said.