Firewife by Tinling Choong

Author:Tinling Choong
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780307389268
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2008-04-08T00:00:00+00:00

chapter 10

NIN

Singapore → Amsterdam

I am in 3A, a window seat. Behind me, 4A is a Russell Crowe. I smile at Russell. Russell sits next to an Asian woman. Possibly Thai. Not only is she Thai, 4B is a stunning Thai with a stunning Thai smile. I give Russell another smile. But Russell is distracted by the shocking body next to him. I have no chance, logistically, facially, bodily, exotically.

Excuse me, miss, may I please have another glass of port?

Is port an after-dinner or a before-dinner drink? Who gives a damn about protocols when no one knows your name? So let there be port and there shall be port.

Port works like a hundred tiny drunken hot-blooded sea snakes swimming away from my mouth toward my neck, stomach, limbs.

Look. Outside the airplane window, against the dark void, Russell Crowe is nibbling on something. Holy smokey, there are two Russell Crowes in my vicinity. I must be more than tipsy. One Russell is sitting behind me, while one is outside the plane window to the left of me. I squint my tipsy eyes and stare close against the window. It looks like the Window Russell is nibbling on a toe. I move my body away from the window. Still, why isn't a Russell Crowe sitting next to me, conveniently available? But I am not available. I am married. I am married to Mahar, Mahar Ramakrishnan. I am not consequence-less-ly carefree. Still, why isn't Russell a 3B? The real 3B is a George Costanza. His college-ringed finger is tapping. Tapping to some fragmented thoughts. I turn to look at George's face. He gives a grin. Oh, don't. Let it be known, my principle is this: When I am drunk, I am vain, and I am not talking to anyone except Russell Crowe. But the gate is open, too late to run.

“I see you didn't eat your curry prawn dinner, too spicy?” George Costanza asks.

I burp conspicuously and struggle to will my port-fed lips to form a small please-don't-talk-to-me smile. But I manage to make only a meaningless twitch.

His ringed finger begins to tap again. TapTap. TapTap. George is thinking: How to fire up a conversation between a man and a woman?

“I'm on business.” George has his adamant streak. “I was in Singapore attending the largest lingerie convention in the world. I was there to scout the new trends in Oriental women's lingerie. I'm a buyer for several big stores back in the States.”

In Seinfeld, George's father once had an idea of making bras for older men.

I say nothing. I see his stocky fingers begin to hop to some dissonant rhapsody. Winking winking, his ring is awfully big. Its big band supports its big yellow stone. TAPwink. TAPwink.

I imagine George's clammy fingers, one prominently ringed, kneading my breast.

Holy Monkey. I turn toward the window, head smacking the glass.

“Are you all right?” George asks, his fingers on my elbow.

“Uh-huh.” I refuse to turn my head.

“Let me take a look at your forehead. It was quite a bang.

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