As I finished the puzzle, one of my least favorite odors permeated the air. The scent of smelly man foot. The guy next to me had removed his shoes. I wrinkled my nose and tried to breathe in through my mouth.
“Ah, that’s better,” he said to the woman with him as he wiggled his freed feet in their white tube socks. The woman smiled without showing any teeth, and then began clipping her nails.
Great. Now, I had not one, but two of my least favorite human activities on public transit taking place in a two-foot radius. At least I had the aisle seat. I turned, shifting my body away from them and hoping the lady might gently remind her man of proper social mores.
But after several minutes of sweaty-sock-scented air and the clip-clip-clip of nail maintenance, I started to wonder if perhaps my seatmates might break out Q-tips next and check for earwax. I frowned at the image as the plane reached its cruising altitude, and one of the flight attendants strolled down the aisle, a purposeful look in her eyes. When she reached me, she bent down. She wore her hair in a perfectly coiffed twist.
“Bon soir. You are Ms. Harper?”
“Bon soir. I am.”
“If you’d like, I can move you to a row closer up.”
“You can?”
“Yes, the seats are much more comfortable, and there is a spare one.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. I grabbed my computer bag, unbuckled, and followed the sharp-suited woman. She escorted me out of coach, held open the blue curtain to economy plus and guided me through the cushier section. I spotted a few empty seats, but she didn’t stop. She marched forward to the next blue curtain, the one that led to first class. I slowed my pace when I realized where she was taking me. The empty seat was next to Bryan. He turned around, smiled with his eyes, and gestured grandly to the massive leather seat next to his, so large it could turn into a bed. He no longer had a bandage on his right hand.
“Would you care to join me? The seat is empty and I have plenty of miles, so it’s not a problem.”
“The guy next to me had his shoes off and his wife was cutting her nails. So, yes, yes, yes.”
“Those activities are forbidden under my regime.”
“I know!”
I took the seat, buckled in, and leaned against the buttery leather chair, feeling like a princess flying through the sky to Paris.
*****
“Would you like to see the wine list?”
A dark-skinned woman with light brown eyes proffered what looked like an invitation to a fancy party. I tried not to let my jaw drop. They weren’t just passing out diet sodas and seltzer here in first class. There were several varieties of wine on the list, not to mention cocktails. I looked at Bryan. “Are you getting something?”
“I’m not really a wine person. I’ll take a Glenlivet on the rocks,” he said to the flight attendant. Then to me. “You?”
I shook my head.
“Would you like a cocktail, then?”
“Just an orange juice, please.” I felt like a kid, but the truth was I didn’t trust myself not to pounce on Bryan if I had a drink or two in me. She nodded and walked away.
“Not in the mood? Or do you not really drink?”
“Not often.”
“What’s that all about? Any reason?”
“I wish I could say I had this horrible childhood and my mother was a raging alcoholic or my father was a drunk who beat me. Well, I don’t really wish I could say that. But you know what I mean. There’s no deep-seated childhood reason. No dysfunction I’m trying to avoid. The truth is I just don’t like the taste of alcohol.”
“Not even champagne or cosmopolitans or chocolate martinis? I would think you’d be all over the chocolate martinis with your sweet tooth.”
“Ugh. No. None of them. Those fruity drinks and sweet drinks – all they’re doing is trying to add enough sweet stuff to mask the taste of the liquor. And I can’t stand the taste of beer. I mean, I drank it in college. But now it just reminds me that I never really liked the taste even then. It’s like swill.”
“And hard liquors are out, I assume?”
“They taste like gasoline to me. Well, I’ve never had gasoline, of course. My mother would correct me now and say, ‘You mean they taste like gasoline smells.’”
The flight attendant reappeared with our drinks. She placed Bryan’s sturdy glass of scotch on his tray table, alongside my orange juice, and two glasses of water. After she left, Bryan held up his glass to toast.
“Hand all better?”
“Turns out I just fractured a bone. It’s pretty much back to normal now.”
“Good.”
We clinked glasses. “To a successful business trip to Paris.”
“I will definitely drink to that.” I took a sip of my orange juice. “So, how did it all come together? The padlock thing?”
“It’s not a done deal. But I’ve been waiting on the city, and I heard this week that there’s someone new in charge, and she’s open and wants to meet right away. There are a lot of tourists coming to the city for the holidays and then for Valentine’s Day, so they need to make room for new locks.”
“So here’s a question for you. If you hadn’t started this company, if you were doing something else entirely, what would it be?”
“You mean, like playing shortstop for the New York Yankees?”
“Yes. Like that.”
“Well, shortstop for sure. Otherwise, I’d have to say rock star.”
“Rock star would be awesome.”
“And after that I’d write for a wine magazine.”
I chuckled. “A wine magazine? I thought you didn’t like wine.”
“I don’t like wine. When you write for a wine magazine, you can say anything you want and no one will challenge you.”
“Explain.”
“You just make it up. You ever read that stuff?”
“Well, no. Obviously.”
“Oh, I do. Just for fun.” He launched into an imitation of a wine writer, pretending to hold a glass and swirl it with one hand, while taking notes with the other. “Mmm, I taste a little sandpaper. Yes, sandpaper and fresh soil.”
He sniffed an imaginary glass. “Faint aromas of shoe leather mixed with lightly toasted tar. It’s full bodied, velvety and long. With just a touch of gravel. Gravel. I mean, who the hell knows what gravel tastes like? But they write that. They say wine tastes like gravel.”
“I don’t think I’d want to taste gravel.”