Page 66 of The Wrong Move

The flight attendants assist passengers, and before I ask to sit in the spare aisle seat beside me, a guy with long hair and an equally long beard slides into it.

Terrific.

“Hey, man. You traveling the world?”

“No. Just in Rome for a couple of days.”

“Business?”

“Yes.” I’m on a mission, and Giana is my business. “You?”

“I’m traveling to Venice. My flights have been rerouted more times than I can count. I was lucky to get this seat.”

“Some of us are lucky,” I mumble.

“Seriously, I’ve been in the same clothes for two days.” He lifts his arms for emphasis, and his body odor hits me.

“You must be dying for a shower.”

“A change of clothes would be good. My luggage was lost on the flight from Vietnam to Miami.”

Trust me, it’s not the clothes.Pushing away the thought of giving him the shirt off my back with the hope it would dull the smell, I process what he said. “Vietnam? How was that vacation?”

“I reside there for most of the year.” He grins at me, his dried, cracked lips almost splitting. “I teach English and tutor children, then travel for a couple of months every year. It’s the best life.”

While I can’t imagine it, I like this guy. “It sounds like an adventure.”

He raises his arms again. “The stories I could tell.” His long arms fall safely by his sides, and I let out the breath I was holding.

“Keep the stories for the other end of our flight, when I need to stay awake. Like our friend here.” I jab a thumb toward the girl whose shoes are leaving a tire-like imprint on my thigh. “I need to catch somez’s.”

“Well, I’m Vince.” He holds out a hand. I stare at his long, potentially germ-covered fingers. Where has he been the past two days?

“Byron.” Out of an abundance of politeness, I shake his hand and almost immediately regret it. I subtly wipe my now moist palm on my pants.

As I close my eyes, I’m vaguely aware of the plane taking off and then leveling in the air. A voice interrupts my dozing with an offer of food.

“Man, I am starved,” Vince comments.

“You can have mine,” I tell him. “Do you drink whiskey?”

“Do pigs fly?” He laughs. I shake my head. So, it’s a no? “Sorry, I’m delusional.”

“Yes or no, Vince?”

“Yeah. I could do with one.”

“Then I think I’ll order us enough to get through this flight.”

Three hours later, I regret ordering the whiskey.

Vince’s head is tilted back on the seat, his mouth wide open as he snores louder than a freight train. The man needs a mandibular advancement device. Every time he winds up, I give him a gentle nudge, and he makes a gargling, choking soundbefore stopping for a few minutes. And emo girl beside me now has those fucking boots stretched across my thighs. I need to piss, and yet, I don’t want to move either one of them. While I don’t know their stories, I’m not oblivious to the fact they both clearly need to rest.

An hour later, I remove my cap and scratch my scalp. I have to move. All I fucking need is a blood clot in my calf. “Hey,” I whisper to Vince. “Sorry, man, I need to get up.” There’s no way I can squeeze past him. Vince nods wearily and stands so I can slip past. I lift the girl’s legs slightly, and they drop back onto my seat. Great. I stare at the soles of her shoes, wishing my eyes could shoot lasers into them.

Praying for patience, I take one last clean breath and open the door to the lavatory, twist to step inside, and close the door behind me.Christ, how does anyone fit in here?I’m forced to hold onto the walls as turbulence hits. My stomach somersaults, and I narrowly avoid painting the seat with its contents. It reeks in here. I have to get out. Outside the cubicle, I take what I expect to be a clean, deep breath, only to be hit with hundreds of musky armpit odors.

There is no safe place.

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