So I’m giving this relationship thing with Sunny one more serious shot. It’s been five years since I made this kind of effort, but I figure she’s worth it. If there isn’t any real progress when I see her this next time, I’ll consider backing off.
I want to charge my phone so I can do something useful, but unfortunately we’re on one of the few planes that still hasn’t been outfitted with wifi. Even if I can’t check my emails and calendar, I’d at least like my phone to work when I get home, but I think the cable is in my bag in the overhead compartment. We’re getting ready for takeoff, so I have to wait until we’re in the air now.
A light tap on my arm draws my attention away from my dead phone. For the first time, I notice the woman beside me. Her smile is blindingly white. “I don’t mean to bother you…”
I don’t know why people say things like that. She obviously does mean to bother me, otherwise she wouldn’t have tapped me on the arm in the first place.
“It’s cool.” I’ll be surprised if she recognizes me with all the facial hair. Her hand is still on my arm. I glance down, the contact is unexpected and kinda uncomfortable, considering I don’t even know her. She’s stroking my arm hair, which is getting out of control again. I need to tame that—along with everything else—as soon as I get home and before I head to Guelph. “Do you need to get something?” I point to the overhead compartments and the seatbelt sign. “I don’t think we can get up yet.”
“No. No. I just. Well, God, I’m so sorry, but—”Her face turns a bright shade of red. Oh, shit. She’s going to proposition me. As if to prove me right, she stops stroking my arm hair and gestures to my lap. Leaning closer, she whispers, “You have a tear in your pants.”
I check out the damage. “Shitballs.”
I’ve been living out of a bag for ten days. I haven’t had access to hot, running water or decent laundry facilities. My sweats were the only semi-clean thing left, and only because I slept in them most of the trip. There’s a good reason why these are my sleeping pants. The sizable hole in the crotch leaves a lot of room for exposure. Sometimes I wear these at home and fondle my balls while I watch TV. Two days ago I ran out of underwear. It’s not boxers or tighty whities I’m showing her. It’s my ungroomed ball sac. She might have gotten an eyeful of head as well, but I’m not sure.
I quickly rearrange my sweats. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to flash you.”
She gives my knee a squeeze and winks. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything that exciting since before my second marriage, so there’s really no need to be sorry.”
This is going to be a seriously long flight.
Chapter Three
This Isn’t the Mile High Club
SHOWING OFF MY nuts seems to open the gate for conversation. My new friend, I’m calling her the Nut Peeper—she told me her name, but I can’t remember it—chatters away, complaining about the subpar service at her five star resort.
“Where did you stay? Did you have good service?”
“I didn’t stay at a resort.” I wish I had my headphones and charger. The stupid seatbelt sign is still on, though, so I have to wait. Besides, if I get up I’ll look like a jerk.
“Oh? Did you stay at a bed and breakfast? That’s risky. You never know what kind of place it’s going to be. I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories.”
“Yeah?” I don’t ask questions, but she must assume I want to know all about it, because she keeps talking.
“I had a friend who stayed in a five star B&B, and they didn’t even serve breakfast! That should be standard. I can’t imagine going somewhere for vacation where I had to prepare my own meals. Not unless it was a timeshare, and who wants to do that?”
In my peripheral vision I see her hand creeping along the armrest, like a fleshy spider. I’d like to squish it.
“Maybe people with food allergies?” I stupidly suggest, which gives her the green light to tell me her entire life story.
“My best girlfriend’s allergic to gluten. I don’t know if I believe her, though. I think she wants to be skinny, and she thinks if she can’t eat bread then she can’t get fat. I don’t eat bread because I don’t want cellulite. I only eat meat and vegetables, and I haven’t gained weight in over two years. Except sometimes during the holidays, because I love rum and eggnog. But once I go back on my meat diet—poof!” She makes the accompanying hand gestures. “It’s all gone again. You must be able to eat anything you want.” She gives my bicep a squeeze. “Wow. You’re in incredible shape. Do you do the P90X workout? What did you say you do for a living?”
The plane starts rolling, and a flight attendant appears to give us the usual safety speech. I’d much rather listen to her talk about inflating my seat if we happen to crash into a body of water than the chick beside me bitch about stupid things like eating a meat diet. In another life—maybe three months ago—I might have suggested she come to the bathroom with me so she could suck on my meat stick, but I’ve given that up. Kinda like people give up things for Lent—like chocolate, or swearing. Only this has been longer than forty days, and I don’t have a definite end date.
Nut Peeper fidgets with her purse and produces a small prescription bottle. “I get nervous when I fly.” She struggles with the cap, and suddenly I feel bad, partly because I’d considered shutting her up with my dick in her mouth, but also because her word vomit might have less to do with her being annoying and more to do with her stress level.
“Need some help?”
“Would you? Sometimes these caps are so hard to get off.”
I try to read the label as I twist the tiny cap, but the word is really long, one of those “blahblah-a-blahblah-pam” jobs. I don’t take medication unless I’m severely injured. I’ve seen enough players develop issues with painkillers, and I never want to go that way. I tend to stick to the basics like Tylenol or Advil if I’m hurting. It’s only when the game’s at risk and I need to get back out there and play that I’ll let the team doc give me a shot of something stronger.
I pop the cap and pass it back.
“Thanks. Want one?” She asks like she’s offering candy.
“I’m good.”
“I might fall asleep. If I lean on you, just push me to the other side.”
“Sure thing.”
I don’t know how many she takes, but ten minutes later she’s sawing logs and trying to snuggle with my bicep. I get the flight attendant to bring blankets and an extra pillow, and then I rearrange her so she’s no longer using me as her personal bed.
I don’t need medication to put me to sleep. I’m exhausted, and my body hates me, so I pass out a few minutes later. I’m not sure how long I’m out for, but I’m jolted awake by a tickling feeling on my beard. I rub it and give it a scratch, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in there apart from some grit and leaves and possibly leftovers from meals that didn’t get washed out thanks to the limited water supply and quick, semi-cool showers.
Nut Peeper is up and flipping through a magazine. Her head bobs a couple of times, as if she’s fighting to stay awake. The guy across the aisle is catching flies with his mouth. Randy and his seat friend are snuggled under a communal blanket in the row behind him.