Everyone had been told to buckle up. I already had my seat belt on, of course, so when the steward walked by, checking that every passenger had followed his directions, he gave me a big smile and nodded his head. Strangely, Timothy glared at him.
Now, I need to say that I’ve always had a history of being what my grandmother called plump. I also consider myself to be plain as a Chinese dumpling. Yet, Timothy thought I was beautiful. That was strange, but nice.
Of course, Simone had given me some enhancements back in the days when I first started dating Timothy. She’d worked on my hair to get it appropriately styled, as she put it, and she’d done something to my cheekbones, as well as giving me eyelash enhancements and who knew what else. (I’d been asleep in the beauty parlor chair at the time.)
Anyway, with a little TLC, I guess everyone could brighten up their appearance and more or less turn into a better edition of the original. I would always be grateful for Simone’s assistance in the matter, but the truth is that, I really didn’t see why people kept calling me a “goddess” and describing me as a natural model. Me? That was a laugh.
But here this steward had given me his handsome as sin bright-white smile, and Timothy’s eyes were still following the poor man, my husband’s anger tightening the muscles in his face. It wasn’t as if the airline attendant had asked me out on a date for a movie night. Maybe the jealousy bit, was a good thing, except . . .
Well, the truth of the matter is that I was suddenly feeling less than par. Was it the water tank that Bob said never got cleaned out on board flights? Was the coffee now churning about inside me complaining that I’d had two cups of it? Or maybe it was that strange pastry sandwich I’d eaten? But Timothy, other than the stern countenance on his face as he watched the steward continue down the aisle, looked fine.
I guess I groaned as I reached for the little bag that lay protectively inside the seat pocket in front of me. I opened up the plastic-line, cardboard bag and stared inside.
“You’re fine,” Timothy said, soothingly, but I wasn’t, and his reassurance only irritated me, as if he dared to think that my stomach didn’t know the difference between fine — and sick as a dog who’d just foraged in a tipped over garbage can.
“Does she need a pill?” Bob called out from the seat behind me.
I didn’t look up. If I had, my eyes might have sent Laser Beams at the man. I don’t know why I felt so angry, but I was burning up with it. In fact, I was suddenly dripping perspiration, a steaming glass with moisture pouring out like a . . .
I gagged and sank my face inside the bag, but nothing came out.
All around me, I could feel people recoiling. No one let out a hiss or a verbal complaint, but it was like a tidal wave in the air that half knocked me off my seat. Or their antipathy would have, if I hadn’t been buckled in.
Timothy swung his arm around my shoulder. “Breathe in, my darling. I think you’re just having a bad reaction.”
A bad reaction? Reacting to what? The coffee? The sandwich. The blueberry yogurt? The bear claw I wanted but never got?
A second heave pushed forth, but nothing upchucked, just misery that slapped me up and down and flapped my stomach about like a gasping, dying fish.