I sift through The New Yorker, tired from the booze but too amped by my new hubby to actually fall asleep. The urgency that Danny had with the whiskey seems to have been replaced with an urgency to check up on me. That, or the two extra whiskey minibottles that the flight attendant slipped him are starting to take effect. I feel him constantly looking over in my direction. When I make eye contact, he says, “Hon-ey.” Then we go back to our magazines.
Horton Hears a Who comes on. My new honey has already seen it, he “loves the movies,” but he still watches, pointing and laughing at the bumbling Horton. I picture myself then as his real wife, watching a boat-sized television as we cuddle up on last season’s terracotta-colored couch, laughing at sitcoms made for middle-schoolers.
I drift to sleep moments later. When I wake, after what seems like hours, he’s looking right at me like I’m a handle of his favorite whiskey. His eyes are all moony.
“You know, if we had children, they’d have blue eyes,” he says. I respond as any other 20something California girl would: I giggle.
The blondie flight attendant has given Danny, along with extra minibottles of Johnny Walker, a huge water bottle. She swings by, a napkin rose tucked in her lapel, pausing when she comes close to our aisle.
“See over there, that’s my husband.” She points out Danny to her co-worker. “We’re on our honeymoon.”
I look at my plane hubby. “It’s only been two-and-a-half hours and you’re already cheating on me?”
His voice lowers. “Puh-leeze,” he says and then nods toward the attendant, “did ya see the size of that rock on her finger?”
I smile at my in-flight husband, knowing our relationship is secure at least until landing time.