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She pats my arm with a wrinkled hand. “Nonsense. It’s good for me to move around before sitting three hours in flight. I consider myself lucky that you boarded late.”
On my right, Broody Man snorts.
I ignore him. Maybe it wasn’t a snort in my direction. Maybe he was clearing that super-smelling nasal airway of his.
“Cabin crew, boarding is complete,” the pilot announces over the speaker system.
Broody Man very slowly and obviously checks his watch and sighs. Loud enough that he must be doing it on purpose.
And this time, Iknowit’s directed at me.
Seriously? I was, like, five minutes late.
Seven, tops.
Fine. Ten.
But no more than eleven.
Besides, it’s not like they held the plane for me. I’ve been onboard for a few minutes now, and we still haven’t even pulled away from the gate.
So this delay is abso-positivi-lutely not my fault.
In a little moment of indignance, I glare at the back of the guy’s newspaper. Which is a slightly more-passive, less-aggressive form of glaring at someone who can actually see you doing it.
Also much more informative about the NASDAQ, as it would happen.
When I’m all glared out, I kick off my old leopard-print booties and stow them under the seat in front of me. I’m about to pull my new Brené Brown book out of my bag when I notice the elderly lady looking at me expectantly.
I bite my tongue. Honestly, after the excitement of Bathroomgate and the consecutive luggage-hurdling to my actual gate, all I really want to do is tune out the world in bookland and tuck into my trusty snack bag. But I have enough Haribo gummies to share. Plus, old people are always full of interesting stories.
“Are you visiting Atlanta for a vacation?” I ask her.
She sighs and claps her hands dramatically. “For love!”
“Wow.” I’m suddenly invested; this lady’s got to be pushing eighty. “Tell me more.”
“His name’s Walter.” Her saggy cheeks become petal-pink with a flush that takes years off her appearance. “He’s a veteran. Ever so handsome.”
I decide the polite thing to do is to refrain from asking which particular war he’s a veteran of, so I opt for a smile. “I’ll bet.”
“You should see his pictures from thirty years ago. He was a fox.”
“How did you two meet?”
“Christian Mingle. Have you heard of it?”
Outwardly, I’m calm and nodding, but in my mind, I’ve jumped straight to swindlers and catfishers and horrible predators who would take sweet, old, technology-impaired ladies for a ride and lead them to financial ruin.Damn you, Netflix documentaries, for skewing my views on internet love!
“Have you met Walter in person yet?” I ask hopefully.
She gives her head a little shake, beams. “My first time.”
My smile tightens.
The elderly lady leans towards me eagerly. “Do you have an account, dearie?”
“Pardon?”
