She had ushered the pregnant bride off the shuttle, made certain everyone was buckled in, and then the trip had gotten underway.
Passing through the fold in space, Selena felt a moment of disorientation—a feeling of being frozen in space and time and yet whizzing forward as fast as possible all at once. It was extremely strange, but over in barely a minute, to her intense relief.
“Attention, passengers, we are now in Ma’shorkan space,” the flight attendant informed them. “In just a little under an hour we will be landing on Ma’shorka Centra. I’ll be coming around to take your drink orders in just a moment. Enjoy the rest of your flight!”
Selena might have enjoyed it, if the oatmeal alien on her left had kept to his own space. But as he relaxed even more, he actually seemed to be overflowing his own seat and encroaching into hers. She was doing her best not to touch the irritable Kindred on her right, but she didn’t want to touch Oatmeal face on her left either. But he wasn’t making it easy, since he was slowly taking over the entire left side of her seat, despite the armrest between them.
She thought about poking the oatmeal alien and demanding that he move over to his own space, but she didn’t want to make a scene—especially around the rude Kindred on her other side. So she gritted her teeth and squeezed herself into the smallest possible package—which wasn’t easy to do, since she wasn’t exactly petite to begin with.
Thankfully, the attendant saw what was happening when she came by to take drink orders.
“Oh, look at that!” she exclaimed in disgust when she saw how cramped Selena was. “This is always a problem with Torpids,” she added, speaking to Selena. “They fall asleep and sprawl all over the place, and crowd the other passengers. We’ve asked the Kindred Flight Council to not allow them passage anymore unless they book themselves at least two seats, but it’s still under review. Hey!” she continued, shouting in the oatmeal alien’s lumpy, misshapen ear. “Hey, wake up—you’re crowding your fellow passenger, Sir!”
The Torpid—apparently it was the name of his species—woke with a snort and looked at the attendant blearily with half-open eyes.
“Hhhhhnnnggg?” he muttered, staring at her.
“You’ll have to wake up and stay in your own seat,” the attendant told him sternly. “You can’t take up two seats—this lady beside you is really crowded!” She gestured at Selena.
Oatmeal face turned his head slowly and regarded Selena, who did her best to stare back at him assertively. She lifted her chin and met his strange, tan eyes, letting him know that the attendant was right—he was taking up more than his fare share of space and being rude.
The Torpid’s face remained blank but after a moment, his left arm and shoulder, which had melted over into Selena’s space, began to withdraw, creeping like a giant amoeba, until he was once more only taking up the entire armrest.
Well, Selena thought, it seemed to be as good as she was going to get. She asked the attendant for a red wine spritzer to settle her nerves, and tried to get back to her book, which happened to be a BDSM romance.
But no sooner had she gotten her drink and lifted the glass to her mouth to take a sip, than Oatmeal face made a loud snorting-snoring sound and expanded suddenly, jogging her arm and making her spill the entire thing all over the front of her t-shirt.
“Damn it!” Selena exclaimed, looking down at the spreading pink stain on the front of her white shirt. She sat up quickly, away from the sleeping Torpid, looking around for something to dry herself off with.
“Here.” The gruff voice to her right surprised her. She looked over to see the dark Kindred warrior holding out a white cloth square that looked suspiciously like an old-fashioned handkerchief.
Selena had no idea what to make of this offer. He had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want anything to do with her earlier—it was a bit late to start playing the gentleman now—at least in her opinion.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, not taking the handkerchief. “But this is red wine and I don’t want to ruin your handkerchief.”
“I assure you, I only use it to clean my screen,” he said, nodding at the lighted device he was holding in his other hand. “It doesn’t matter to me if it gets stained. Please…” He offered the handkerchief again and cleared his throat. “Take it as a peace offering. I was…rude earlier.”
“Well…all right. Thanks.”
Selena took the offered handkerchief and began scrubbing at the wet pink stain that now covered the front of her shirt. She wished again that she’d worn a bra instead of the float dots. The damp t-shirt was clinging to her nipples and the cold, wet fabric was making them tight and hard—they were poking out like headlights, making her blush with embarrassment.