It was my first time in an airplane and I was nervous. Still, it was totally unexpected when the man next to me leaned over the book I was reading and spat loudly right between the pages. Funny, if I think about it, I had thought up thousands of scenarios – from my ticket being bad to the plane crashing into the ocean, aflame – and yet this particular one had never even entered my mind. For a second, I was too embarrassed to look at him. Of course, I didn't find it remotely funny then. It wasn't even my book and I was already praying the pages wouldn't get sticky from the spit.
'Well, aren't you going to tell me what you're reading?' he asked. He sounded perfectly normal as if he hadn't just done what he did. I felt his eyes on the side of my face, his gaze moving from my earlobe down my cheek, over my breasts and presumably settling on the book he'd just dirtied.
My mother always said that the best thing to do with this type of person is just leave them be. Interacting with them is sure to get you into more trouble and it's not worth it. So, I told myself that, as I sat perfectly still and looked out the window as if nothing had happened.
'Well, that's rather rude of you, I asked you a question and all,' he said and just then, I had the weirdest, most uncomfortable feeling. But it was too late.
Before I could say anything, the stranger in the seat next to me leaned over again and spat once more unto my borrowed book.
'Can you please stop that?' I said politely, though through gritted teeth.
'Oh, she speaks,' he mocked, 'what a joy! But of course, love, I was only being nice to you.'
And I don't know how it happened. I could tell you I'm usually a very level-tempered woman that it takes a lot for me to lose my cool. I could even bring forth friends – well, acquaintances, really – who could testify to that, but there would be little point, for if you had been on that plane with me, you would not believe it to be so, even if the Pope himself attested to my calm nature.
I turned to this spitting stranger and I don't remember what I did or said next, but judging from the faces of the people around us, I had screamed rather loudly. What my mother used to call “making a scene”.
Only the stranger was perfectly still, staring at me like he hadn't heard. And then, the strangest of things, he smiled.
When he saw the rip in her dress, he had a hard time controlling his anger. It was right on the edge and it was barely noticeable. He hadn't meant for this, not in the slightest. He'd wanted her to pass him by and get a huge tear right across her bottom. He'd wanted to have some fun while he was stuck in this damn airport with nothing fun to do. Eliza had dropped him off two hours ago and seemed quite pleased to be rid of him. There was a lass he wouldn't be visiting again any time soon.
Roger was a wonderful man, truly, he was sensitive and smart, caring and handsome, he had an amazing talent for winning you over. At first. But then, you got to know him, you spent a little too much time with him. And they all came to the same disturbing conclusion – that this man, wonderful though he may be, was just too much. No, Roger Waterborne was a man to be left on his own, because nobody had the patience or rather, the energy, to keep up with him.
He hadn't meant to upset her too much. Which, ironically, was exactly what he was doing. It annoyed him greatly that his plan had failed – the first one in many months to come to such a pathetic end – and he spent the rest of the wait sulking in a corner. Until, as he boarded his plane, he caught a glimpse of the same torn dress from earlier. He pushed his way through the two identical elderly couples that were boarding in front of him and sure enough, it was the same woman from before.
Now, Roger told himself, he could not screw up a second time. As he boarded the plane, he set out to wreck some definite havoc in this woman's life before the flight was over.
There were clouds in the sky, but she didn't notice. The woman with the torn dress and the spat-on book was too busy staring at this grinning stranger who appeared to be having the time of his life. And before she knew it, she could see his point.
Come on, that was worth at least a giggle.
And the woman allowed herself a giggle, for the sheer weirdness of it all. And then, the giggles took over her and she burst out into wild, maniacal laughter, all while staring at this peculiar stranger. It had been pretty weird, she had to admit. Who does that?
Roger looked at the woman as if she'd spat fire. She was supposed to get angry, which she had done and that was all very good. But then, she did this even weirder thing – her anger had vanished and here she was giggling it away. The pageful of spittle that was slowly dribbling on her slightly torn dress didn't matter anymore, for nobody had spat on her book or broken her bubble before and she was reveling in this new-found feeling.
And Roger...well, he wasn't sure how to react to this, 'cause most of the women in his life had been the exact opposite. They'd all been charmed by his casualness, his good humor, some had even been delighted by his childish antics. But most had grown bored after a while. They wanted a man who could take care of them, not make them giggle and that had been their flaw.
And now, here was this woman who seemed delighted, although he'd started out being downright rude to her, something his former partners, including Eliza, had never appreciated before.
'The Lives of Great Spitters,' she replied, still laughing, 'that's what I'm reading.'
So, Roger smiled at this odd someone who seemed able to share his odd giggles.
