‘Indeed.’ The waitress took a step back. Had I offended her? I was just stating a fact: oat milk was most certainly not almond milk. Despite their obvious physical differences – being derived from completely different food sources – oat milk gave me gas. Gas might be vaguely acceptable when in the privacy of your own home – after all, it was just a biological process – but the potential of flatulence on an airplane bothered me. I did not think it would be very polite to inflict my gas on strangers.
‘I’ll have a Coke then, in a tin, please,’ I said.
The waitress smiled and walked off. I was not so terrible at interpreting facial expressions that I couldn’t tell it was a forced smile. Forced smiles, I’d noticed, had less teeth involvement. They were usually just confined to the lips and often had a tight, pulled quality to them. As if the person had just had Botox.
‘Here we go.’ Moments later she put my Coke down on the table. I stared at it in disbelief.
‘I asked for Coke in a tin,’ I said, trying to infuse as much politeness into my tone as possible.
‘Sorry, we only have it in plastic bottles.’
Number three. The third sign. This was it. ‘I only drink Coke in a tin. I don’t like the way it tastes in a bottle. So, no, thank you. But thank you for doing your job. Thanks.’ I tried to force a smile at the waitress too, to communicate my appreciation and understanding. It wasn’t her fault that they only had bottles. It wasn’t her fault they were out of almond milk. That was clearly the fault of whoever’s job it was to order stock.
‘They taste the same,’ she said, pointing at my bottle.
I shook my head. ‘No, they don’t.’
‘The recipe is the same for a tin and a bottle.’
‘While that might be technically true, Coke from the tin tastes sharper and more carbonated. The Coke from the bottle is never as fizzy or as cold.’
‘I actually agree with City Tower on this one. Coke does taste different out of a tin.’
I swung around at the sound of theveryfamiliar voice. ‘Flightbird Six Zero Zero.’
The face in front of me smiled. ‘City Tower.’
‘Flightbird Six Zero Zero.’
‘Finally, I can put a face to the voice,’ Flightbird said, continuing what I could see was a genuine smile.
‘Your face doesn’t look anything like your voice,’ I stated.
‘What did you think I looked like?’
‘Older. And less attractive.’
Flightbird let out a shocked-sounding gasp and the waitress next to me clicked her tongue. I wasn’t sure what that was meant to convey, but I could see she was now very interested in what I had to say.
‘Sorry, that was blunt. I’m blunt sometimes. But I am simply stating an obvious fact.’ Because Flightbirdwasgood-looking, and anyone could see that. His face was balanced and perfectly symmetrical. I liked symmetry. He had deep blue eyes which bordered on navy. No, not navy. Royal blue. Navy was too dark and dull for what his eyes were. Flightbird’s hair followed the same symmetrical pattern. It was dark brown, apart from those flecks of golden brown which were in the exact same place on the left and right side of his head. He was proportional perfection personified.
‘Your shoulders are also broad,’ I said, beginning to admire his shoulder to waist-and-height ratio.
Flightbird laughed. ‘Is that a compliment?’
‘Broad shoulders have always been favored by females, since prehistoric times, when they were seen as a sign of strength and protection, which was what females primarily looked for in a mate. Just as wide hips were seen as favorable in women. I don’t have wide hips though.’
Flightbird laughed. People often found me funny. That’s what they said, anyway. People had told me I should become a stand-up comedian, due to this funniness I supposedly possessed. But what people didn’t realize was that, first, I wasn’t trying to be funny and, second, being funny and telling jokes are two totally different things. I didn’t tell jokes. I didn’t get jokes. Punch lines were a mystery to me, so if I happened to be considered funny, it really was only by sheer accident.
‘Well then, in that case, I’m flattered,’ he said when he’d finally stopped laughing.
‘May I?’ he asked, and pointed at my table. I looked down at it, wondering what he wanted.
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
‘May I join you?’ He began standing up before I’d even said yes. Presumptuous of him. He must have sensed my reticence though, because he stopped moving. ‘Sorry, if you want to be—’
‘No! No, it’s fine. You can sit,’ I said, surprising myself with my reply.
