The Living Statue

22.

I woke up groggily the next morning. Not because I was packing the previous day, or because having nothing to wear nearly got me to the point of a mental breakdown. Been there, done that and got over it after two shots of tequila.

I'll tell you what. As a teenager I used to be pretty reckless. Parents didn't know what to do with me, teachers hated me and my peers thought I was crazy for being rebelious in the way I was. At one point, I was on the verge of being expelled from high school. Well, you can understand that clubbing and, therefore, alcohol was a major part of my life back then. I could drink a barrel of beer and still restrain myself from falling onto my butt like a complete nincompoop. I was a freaking queen of Upside Down Keg Drinking. Completele unbeatable.

You can also understand that my alcohol tolerance is not even close to what it used to be. Unfortunately, I wasn't aware of the fact until this particular morning.

Last night, after I finally processed Mr Torres' words, I called the girls and, naturally, they came so we could celebrate. I mean, you don't get to go to Paris every day, or even every month for that matter. Caroline brought three bottles of tequila and Lena brought two bottles of vodka. Trust me, it's not a good combination. We danced to Bowie and Hendrix and drank and talked and laughed. Then we danced some more to Pearl Jam and we drank again, until all five bottles were empty and scattered around the apartment.

It was a great night. As in for the morning, not so great. I woke up blessed by the side effects of intoxicants - a migraine joined by a very grumpy mood. Some people complain a lot when they're crabby. I, for my part, don't speak at all.

I made myself a large cup of coffee - it was rather a washbowl than a cup - and when I was finished with it, it was already half past nine. Our flight was supposed to be at half past ten and I still had to finish packing. Of course, being the jinx I am, it took me another half an hour to catch a cab. By the time I arrived at Mr Torres' private air field, I was already forty-five minutes late and ended up welcomed by the grim face of my usually very cheerful employer.

Very cheerful indeed.

He was immensely displeased by my tardiness, and I'm not talking about quiet grumbling or insufferable scolding and incessant complaining. Oh no, Mr Torres had something completely different in mind. Apparently, the only reasonable punishment for my unforgivable misvehavior was silence. Uter, lethal silence that could've killed masses almost as effectively as the bloody statue's cold gaze. And I've earned a little bit of that gaze too. Luckily, I believe I've become immune to it and my body was like a natural shield blocking those merciless imaginary arrows flying from those sea-coloured pools.

On the other hand, I wasn't so immune to the silence, and it kept bothering me throughout the whole time of our bording onto the plane. I was crabby myself, therefore I wasn't keen on talking too much, but the complete hush I came across nettled me. I gave myself a task to unseal those stubborn, irritable lips of his and make him speak, but each attempt of mine ended up in vain.

I didn't even have the time to just admire the posh interior of the small Boing, its beige, puffy seats and laquered wood details and the wide isle between said seats. I couldn't even stop and watch the small circular bar in awe, because all I could think of was my employer's stony face and the way he kept throwing lethal, sideways glances every now and again.

We were seated in the back, where regular seats were replaced by spacious leather booths situated on both sides of the isle, with addition of small, rectangular tables, their polished surface shimmering under the small airplane light above.

A tall stewardess approached us, her lean body sucked into what seemed to be a breath-stopping uniform, swaying her hips ever so slightly as she walked. Naturally, she was as pretty as I'd expected. Her face reminded me of that young waitress Penny or Polly or whatever her name was, the one that served at Baufourt the night Mr Torres so generously decided to give me the opportunity to prove myself.