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Laid Over
S.E. Hall
Chapter One
Lily
“You’re late,” a shriveled-faced flight attendant sneers the obvious at me as I fumble my way onto the plane. “Boarding pass?” She thrusts out an impatient hand, the other on her hip, and foot a-tapping while I dig around for the inconveniently elusive slip of paper.
“Do, uh, you usually ask for those? Because the man inside the airport, who probably would’ve blocked my path should I have tried to sneak my way this far, said — ”
“I’m asking now. Do you have one or not?”
Okay, tuck in the dry sarcasm, Lily… kill her with kindness.
“I’m so, so sorry… but, uh” — frantically, I give myself ten-times the “pat down” as the one served up by Old Man Pervy Hands at security check, which I would’ve thought impossible — “I can’t seem to find it. It’s been that kind of day.” I strive to lighten things up, unsuccessfully— confirmed by her steadfast, unrestingbitch face. “I’m in First Class; Lily Reyn—, um, Myers. Lily Myers.”
Well that went swimmingly. Couldn’t have made a bigger, bumbling jackass of myself had I been trying.
Which I wasn’t.
Much like I didn’t try, or succeed at, juking my way past security to board a plane for which I didn’t have a pass to do so.
But… “If at first you don’t succeed” and all…
“Could I maybe sit down, get situated, then look for it again? I promise, it’s here somewhere. They wouldn’t have let me this far if not, right? I just… I need a second to put my bag up and regroup.”
“Fiinnee, go ahead. Preferably sometime today.” Denise, as told to me by her nametag (I highly suspect they simply spelled She-Devil wrong), puts the utmost effort into rolling her eyes. “I won’t allow you to continue inconveniencing all the other passengers.”
Yeahhh… she might have a valid point there. Which is why, albeit a bit strained, I cordially respond, “Thank you,” before quickly maneuvering my way around, and away from, her.
“You look like you could use a drink,” a voice of rough satin tickles my ear as I flop down, with all the ungracefulness one would expect from the flustered mess that is me, into my seat.
“I’m not sure adding alcohol’s a real gr…” my words get lost the milli-instant I glance at my neighbor. And, just to make absolutely certain I pack a lifetime’s worth of utter humiliation into this one day, I simply stare. For wayyy too long. Too long to be classified as staring. I have definitely crossed over into gawking territory.
But, the damage is already done, so as a fire-alarm blush scorches my cheeks and I remain stuck in a temporarily-speechless-state-of-awestruck, I go ahead and gawkity-gawk the hell out of it; like I may never get the chance to gawk again — memorizing every detail of his strikinggood looks. “A…a good idea,” I finally stammer out the belated ending.
The single man; he’s not wearing a ring anyway, and there’s no telling blanched-out circle around his finger (telling me it’s hidden in his pocket), confirmed with a quick sneak peek at his left hand, sitting beside me is, bar none, the most handsome human being I’ve ever seen in my life… or dreams.
Well, suuure. I mean, why wouldn’t he be drop-dead gorgeous… seeing as how I’m on such a roll today? I’ll bet he’s rich too; and just dying to sweep me off my lil’ ol’ “reeking of subservient desperation” feet. Because that’s exactlyhow things happen in real life. Every. Single. Day. Right?
Wrong.
Not on any day is that how things happen!
Except right now, of course. Now… when I’m frazzled, inside and out — an uncoordinatedly walking, nonsensically talking, one-woman shitshow — who also just so happens to currently be reppin’ “the flag” of my favorite tribe of Bushwomen down south.
Yes, that down south.
Oh, and I haven’t shaved my legs in at least three days. And since I’m making a list, might as well throw the fact that I’m a little bit “gamey” in the armpit regions from all the running as to not miss my flight on there. End of list, game over… because I refuse to even think about my breath, or my no doubtmismatched, maybe even inside out, raggedy-ass bra and underwear.
No perfect chance encounter, no phenomenon, rivaling tales woven since the beginning of time — where I’m the fair maiden, ready in wait — to be had here.
My tale is a satire, filled with irony; always has been. Which is exactly why my fairy godmother — who, I might add, has a sick sense of humor and I wish like hell I could fire — has placed this glorious man of fables and the big screen beside me.
The universe’s way of making sure I never forget just how much “living with my head in the clouds” has cost me.
Sheesh, I get it already; no need to slap me across the damn face with it!
