Sunday, November 27, 2011
Oranges and Apples
Nose buried in the Sunday Times, 9C mumbles. "Apple."
The women in the row smile and chat as they make their choices. I nod open the orange juice carton and start to pour. Early morning flights are easy, sleepy affairs.
"Apple," roars 9c, snapping his paper, and breaking the silence, "apple, apple, apple."
My chin whips around and I goggle at 9c. His face is blotched with angry streaks of red and his paper crinkles in his clenched fists. He's kidding, right? I snap my mouth shut and look at the women. They stare back with wide troubled eyes. I shrug and offer a smile.
9c levitates in his seat. "A.P.P.L.E."
Heads are snapping all over the cabin and I can't help it, I start to laugh. When I can breath, I prop a hand on my hip and give him the stink eye. "Yes," I say, "You can spell, but the ladies are still having orange."