We sit in adjacent seats as the purser comes and offers us booze. Pepper gulps down two glasses of bubbly while I sip on apple juice with a visible frown on my face.
I fiddle with my iPad, my words itching to come out but I restrain myself as I see Pepper glancing down at it repeatedly, probably hoping to find some dirt to send to her editor friend. This woman's got no boundaries.
When she finally realises that I'm not going to give her the oppotunity to barge into my space just yet, she pulls the eye-thingy over her eyes and dozes off. She obviously hates long haul flights.
Checking and double checking to make sure that Pepper isn't peeping like the creep she is. Satisfied, I call for some real drinks and open the Notes app on the iPad and start typing furiously.
Ever had a cocktail? Of course you have. Ever wondered how your bartender is so good at mixing a number of bitter liquids into something that absolutely blows your mind? We were like that. The bartender above worked his magic on us, so much so that we left the other cocktails to reconsider their existence. Our bodies and minds mingled so well that no one else could compliment either of us the way we did each other. My harsh, warm, whiskey like nature complemented her cool, composed beer. And with a bit of spontaneity, or lemon juice, we turned into what is popularly called "The End Zone".
I put down the iPad and shut my eyes. All this talk of alcohol was making my head spin. Why weren't we in Paris yet?
The turbulence had always scared me. Even though a frequent flyer, there was something about the thought of being in a shaking, giant metal tube that made me grab on to the nearest object real tight. It came unannounced (well, obviously) and I swung my hand towards the armrest, only to grab onto another hand. Pepper's. Great.
'Aww. Is Mr Salt afraid of a little turbulence?' she asks in the most kindergarten- way possible, sporting a gigantic cheeky grin. I move my hand, cussing under my breath and switch the in-flight entertainment system on. A weird Bollywood movie grabs my attention, with its vivid colors, song and dance and the over-the-top storyline.
Boy meets girl, they instantly hate each other. As fate would have it, they run into each other numerous times, find themselves in literally unimaginable situations, they humiliate each other, then sing, dance and soon fall in love.
I soon find myself asleep, and am woken up by the plane landing in a rather harsh manner. We're welcomed to Paris by rain. Great start.
We collect our baggage and rarely interact apart from a few sleepy smiles, and walk out the airport to see Bryce himself standing with a placard that reads "Mr Salt & Miss Pepper". Some billionaire. We exchange pleasantries and quickly sit in the limo, where I find myself thinking about the silly Bollywood movie.
"Cliché," I smirk.
But aren't clichés clichés for a reason?
YOU ARE READING
Salt And Pepper
Narrativa generaleTwo points of view, one story. A disconsolate world-renowned artist and an emotionless psychologist. A story with twists and turns and comedy and romance, a story that is being written in hopes to keep you engaged.
