Landing was a slow crucible. Each hundred feet of descent added a stone to the weight behind his eardrum. Lights of the city blurred below. The landing gear thunked down, a sound he felt more in his teeth than heard. The final approach: the roar of flaps, the change in engine pitch. He pressed a hot, desperate finger to the tragus of his ear, wiggling it, begging the pressure to equalize.
He nodded, eyes watering. The plane decelerated, and with the change in speed, a tiny, wet pop occurred deep inside his head. It was not a relief. It was the sound of a small, internal dam breaking. The muffled world snapped back into sharp, painful focus. The engine roar was now deafening. A baby’s cry three rows back was a spike in his skull. His own heartbeat thrummed loudly in his right ear, a bass drum played just for him. blocked ears from flying
The woman beside him noticed his grimace. “You okay?” Landing was a slow crucible