[Calum Achorn]
In around fifteen minutes, Ambrosia Bellemore made me sick of life. In the course of thirty minutes, I'd had enough of women to last me a life time. In about an hour, I was contemplating jumping out of the flying airplane, yelling 'I condemn women to Hell' on the top of my lungs.
"..I wasn't athletic, but you know that. I wasn't good at playing the flute, or the cello, or the bagpipe. I wasn't good at painting. Well, I suck at painting. I can't draw an apple without making it look like a potato." She rambles on and on.
I don't sigh. I think I'd filled my quota of sighs for a lifetime.
"My sister, Neave, she masters the piano, can speak fluent French and Italian, can paint like Picasso, can sew well too, given she's a doctor and stitches her patients every other day, and she plays tennis every Tuesday with her fiancé, Paul."
I flash her a look, even though she's far too gone to notice.
"And you? What can you do?" I ask tentatively.
"Me?" She snorts. "I read books all day, write stories that are far too dark for anyone's liking. I'd rather stay home, eat junk food and watch shows all day long, rather than getting out there and actually conversing with people. It's like I'm something taboo. But you know that, you knew everything about me in High School. But that was a long time ago." She sighs and I tense. Did I slip up?
But then she sighs. "It's like I'm something taboo."
"You say that like it's a bad thing." I say in a condescending tone.
"Is it not?" She asks, her slurred voice rising an octave.
"No." I mumble.
"Huh?"
"Nothing." I say, watching Ambrosia Bellemore for the first time. There was something different about her, I couldn't place my finger on it, but it was certainly there. She was a rebel, she didn't try to stand out, but she did anyway. She wasn't cliché, infact she was far from it. She was like an empty canvas, even though she was colourful. It was as if she painted herself differently for different people. Tints of blues, blacks and reds, all seeming different to different eyes.
I just had to figure out the real one.
~•~
[A few snores, kicks, and hours later, Ambrosia Bellemore]
I don't open my eyes.
I can feel someone breathing softly next to me and the distinct tap tap of leather boots. I don't remember where I am, or how I ended up with my head on someone's shoulder.
Do I have a boyfriend?
No, no. That can't be. My generous body, my bad sense of style in fashion, and a weird sense of humor made sure that I would end up alone for the rest of my life.
"Open your eyes now, I know you're awake." A warm voice I'd never heard before instructs. But it wasn't what I'd been expecting. The voice seemed older, and a bit scratchy. My eyes flash open.
I tried to remember if I'd a fetish for older men.
Do I?
No, absolutely not.
I lift my head slowly from the man's shoulder.
"Hey, darlin'. Are you feeling okay?" The voice asks again. I slowly tilt my head to the side, testing. My head feels heavy, my mouth feels like something died in there, and my hair is probably standing out of my head like antennas. All in all, I felt great.
I still don't look at the man next to me though. What if I promised him my hand while I was drunk? Would he insist on marrying me? What would my mother say? Oh, screw it, she'll probably be happy that I found someone, even if it's a sixty year old, wrinkly man. Would she force me marry him?
No, she won't. This is the twenty first-century for God's sake.
Wait a second, isn't it childish to jump to conclusions without getting to know the truth first?
Yes, I have to man up. Or woman up.
I tentatively turn my head in the direction of the voice, squinting slightly.
A sixty year old bald man grins at me as my eyes meet his.
"Darlin', you are finally awake! You had us worried for a minute there." He says, his smile broadening.
"Please God, let this be a joke." I whisper.
"Gave my wife and me a heart attack when we saw your boyfriend carrying you in here." He continues.
I'm too shocked to reply, not that he gives me a chance though.
"One moment you were here, singing old rock music and then your boyfriend takes you into the lavatory to sober you up, and you return back unconscious."
He wiggles his thick eyebrows at me.
"Great kid, him. Keep your grip tight on that lad, just like my old woman here does. A keeper, he is." He says and gets up to join an old woman, his wife obviously, who was snoring softly.
I take deep breaths to calm myself down. This is a dream, I'm hungover, this isn't real. This isn't happening.
And then I remember.
The alcohol, the singing, the air hostess reprimanding us, Benjamin dragging me into the bathroom...
Oh my God. Did Benjamin jump out of the flying airplane?
~•~
Did he? *wink, wink*