The Write Choice

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Melanie reached for the steaming towel the flight attendant held out to her from long silver tongs. The TV on the seat back in front of her showed a small cartoonish looking plane cruising high above the South China Sea. The sight of the tiny plane smack in the middle of all that blue made Melanie wish she'd paid closer attention to the water landing emergency procedures.

What the hell was she doing on this trip?

She wiped her hands slowly with the hot towel and let the warmth relax her rattled nerves.

Another flight attendant followed behind the first and handed Melanie a boxed lunch: white rice, sesame chicken, fresh mango, and an unrecognizable fluffy, green dessert along with a plastic glass and tiny bottle of chardonnay. She opened the wooden chop sticks and attempted to pick up a piece of mango. She had never quite mastered using them but had been practicing over the last week since learning she would have to make the trip in Dan's place.

Had Dan purposely thrown himself down a flight of stairs to get out of going?

The slippery mango shot out like a rocket from between her chopsticks, ricocheted off the magazine in the back pocket, and landed under her seat. "Crap," she muttered to herself as the tension started to return.

As she tried to retrieve the mango, Melanie snuck a glance at the man next to her. He would be her intimate, extremely close traveling companion for the next nine hours. Her mood sank further. Normally, she liked being by the window, but she was sure she'd have to pee more than once during the long flight to Singapore.

How in the world would she get past him?

He was an impeccably dressed middle-aged Asian man: charcoal business suit, silk tie, polished shoes, and gold cufflinks. Melanie wondered if he would keep his jacket on during the entire flight. He looked rigid—like a statue. And he was wearing a mask.

He didn't look sick.

Melanie assumed the mask must be to keep out whatever toxic germs lurked in the recirculated air and reused pillows of the economy section; germs waiting to pounce on those foolish enough to breathe unprotected during the flight.

He lifted the mask just enough to pop a morsel of chicken in his mouth with his chopsticks. Melanie watched in fascination as he tried to manage a sip of wine—much trickier.

Did he feel he was putting his life in danger by eating a light lunch? He must really want that glass of wine!

She unscrewed the top of her Chardonnay, poured it in the plastic glass, and downed it in three large gulps while motioning to the flight attendant to bring another.

It's going to be a long flight!

Four hours and almost as many tiny bottles of Chardonnay later, Melanie had watched one romantic comedy, part of a Chinese action flick with English subtitles, and surfed through a half-dozen channels. By now, she was on the verge of wetting her pants. No longer able to hold it, she reached over to tap the man next to her.

He had fallen asleep and sat perfectly still. His arms were folded across his chest and his jacket was still on.

Was he breathing?

Maybe the mask hadn't worked. Did the last sip of wine do him in? Should she check for a pulse? On the bright side, his untimely demise would cause enough of a commotion for her to slip away unnoticed to the bathroom.

She leaned closer to his face and was about to poke him when she noticed the white mask moving slowly in-and-out. He was alive.

Crap.